Master and Commander
by lis9
Summary: Snape discovers a growing attraction for his student, but the results of his actions may be more than he bargained for. Counterpart to my first story, Power Play, from Snape's POV.
1. Chapter 1

This is Chapter 1 of what will be a three-chapter story. It goes hand-in-hand with my other story, Power Play, which was written from Hermione's point of view. Though you don't have to read both, this story may make more sense if you've read Power Play first. Please let me know what you think!

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Severus Snape was, by all accounts, a disciplined man. His rigorous adherence to order and structure with regard to his students was surpassed only by the expectations he placed upon himself. His days were marked by a rigid schedule, to which he clung single-mindedly. Disruptions to his set agenda were borne with notable displeasure on his part and very few wished to be the cause of such disruption.

Snape's strict routine was not an absolute necessity, but was more an ingrained habit. There had been a time when cataloguing his life had been vital to his survival. To work for light and dark simultaneously, to appear to serve the Dark Lord, even while fighting to bring about his demise, was an immense undertaking. Such work demanded that he walk a fine line, precariously balancing all aspects of his life. A single error, a slight miscalculation in his judgment, could have meant not only his own death, but also the destruction of all the Order had worked to build. Snape did not take such responsibility lightly.

He spent nearly half his life in this balancing act until the unthinkable occurred – the Dark Lord was defeated, by none other than the insufferable Harry Potter. And what's more, Snape had survived. How such a remarkable turn of events had come to pass was beyond his comprehension. His death as a result of his role in the war had seemed all but a foregone conclusion. So certain of his destruction was he, in fact, that he failed to contemplate how he would exist once the war ended.

And so, with the remainder of his life spread before him, Snape found himself wondering what to do with all his newfound time. The easiest solution was simply to continue in the same fastidious fashion. Though the balancing act was no longer required, he found that the framework of his previous life suited him. If anything, it allowed him to ignore for a while longer the lack of purpose and direction in his life. After fifteen years, his sole mission was complete.

Without examining too closely the particulars of his existence, Snape allowed himself to be subsumed by the routine of his days. Truly, such stringent standards were beneficial to his occupation. Potion-making necessitated exactitude, which he supplied in abundance. The subject appealed to his sense of organization and order. Though he would likely never admit it to anyone, in some ways, he favored Potions to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Whereas the latter held the power to dredge up old memories, the former permitted him to lose himself in the composition of his creations. He could focus solely on his ingredients, on the scientific aspects of blending, the artful attributes of brewing.

Of course, the staid ways of the Potions Master were not limited solely to the academic. Snape conducted his personal life in much the same way as he practiced within his chosen field: with restraint and forbearance. His dark, foreboding personality did not lend itself to the formation of close friendships, and he preferred his solitude. The time not spent teaching students or grading essays and potions was dedicated to further research and reading in the Potions field.

Every once in a great while, he was persuaded by one professor or another to join some of the Hogwarts staff at the Three Broomsticks, but such an occurrence was rare. Never a great drinker, he would visit with his fellow staff members perfunctorily, as though the outing was an odious chore, and return to the quiet of his chambers once again.

As for the fulfillment of physical desires, Snape preferred to remain alone, not having sought the company of another in all his time as a professor at Hogwarts. His state of near-celibacy was self-imposed. True, it was not as though women were beating down his door to have their way with him, but he was not unaware of the places a man in need could go to satisfy his libidinous hunger. But such places, and the women who inhabited those places, held no appeal for him.

Though he generally chose not to dwell on such memories, he could recall clearly the first and only woman to whom he had felt a true attraction and after whom he had both lusted and pined. Lily had been like no other and while in school, he knew his body could respond only to her. His nights were spent behind his green silk bed hangings, imagining her body next to his. Though he had never seen her in any state of undress, he could imagine with perfect clarity the way in which her small breasts sat high on her chest, and could feel her nipples harden beneath his probing fingers. Her delicious scent, that he knew so well, would be that much stronger with no clothing to diffuse it, and her creamy pale skin would feel like the softest velvet on his lips. Her blazing red hair would be found a shade darker between her legs, inviting his hands, his mouth, his penetration.

Night after night, he burned for her in the dark, awaiting the day that she would recognize his passion and return it. But she chose another, turning her back on their friendship and ending for him the possibility that he could ever have her. Though he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the blame for the termination of their relationship lay entirely with him, it was not something he chose to contemplate, let alone accept.

Snape's years under Voldemort presented countless opportunities to engage in wanton lechery, and Snape took full advantage of the circumstances. More than one woman desired him, recognizing the power of the young man in whom Voldemort placed more and more trust. And few women within the ever-growing dark circle were unaware of his prodigious skill in satisfying his partner. They were fascinated by his intense nature and the vigorous way in which he slaked their thirst for fulfillment.

But he was not fulfilled. Snape felt no affection for the women with whom he lay, and in most cases, no attraction. His union with each woman was no more than fucking, merely a way to briefly assuage the growing anxiety that pressed upon him. It was a physical release but provided no mental relief. With each encounter, his treatment became rougher, his need to abuse and defile his momentary partner greater. Each woman was punished for the unfortunate crime of not being Lily.

Had life continued in the same vein, Snape may have eventually self-destructed over what he perceived to be his loss of the woman he loved. But it wasn't until her death that he understood truly what loss was. Her violent end at the hands of Voldemort tore him apart, affecting him much more forcibly than the upheaval caused by Voldemort's disappearance.

After returning to Hogwarts, his sexual fervor all but disappeared. While he fell into his new life and developed what would eventually become his entrenched routine, he felt not even the smallest twinge of lust for any woman. In fact, it was more than two years before he recognized even a hint of arousal. As time passed, his libido did return, but never again did he seek out another to quell his stimulation. Instead, he handled the matter himself, dispatching his regular erections with the same precision and economy that accompanied his every action. And never did he fantasize about a woman, not even Lily, while gratifying himself.

Never, that is, until Hermione Granger grew up.

He was not particularly fond of Hermione. She talked. A lot. Snape was not one to give voice to his every thought and opinion, a restraint that Hermione seemed not to possess. And to make matters worse, she was friends with Potter and Weasley. Her poor choice in companions notwithstanding, he had to admit that she was a talented witch, possessing acute skill with regard to potion-making. But even this cleverness on her part was eclipsed by her overbearing manner and near-constant need for appreciation. For her first few years at Hogwarts, Snape simply couldn't stand her.

Eventually, however, he found that he paid her little mind. The quality of her work never faltered, something he grudgingly admired, and she appeared to outgrow her approval-seeking ways, or at least hide them better. And as the Dark Lord ascended, and Snape's duties to both he and the Order became more fixed, he had little time to dwell upon the personality quirks of his students, including Hermione.

It wasn't until near the end of the war, during the summer before her sixth year, that he first realized the extent of her maturity. The work of Dumbledore's Army came to light, along with her hand in its formation. As Voldemort's last days drew near, she was one of the few students who participated fully in the raging battles that occurred regularly with the Death Eaters. Though still working covertly for the Order and inundated with the precariousness of his position, Snape still managed to catch glimpses of her during those last days and was, at every turn, impressed by her intensity and the vehemence of her belief in the cause. Coming across her in battle, she was a force to be reckoned with, her vast magical knowledge and prodigious skill supplanted only by her will to be victorious.

Of course, Hermione was not the only thing on his mind as the final stand against Voldemort raged around him, and she was forgotten, if temporarily. The time following Voldemort's demise was confusing and disorienting, as Snape's true allegiances came to light and his actions and bravery were honored. He was not fond of the limelight and sought refuge in what he knew, the familiarity of his catalogued life. Eventually, to his great relief, the world calmed down and settled into its old routine as well.

Snape's indulgence of his physical needs remained, at first, yet another unchanging facet of his life. Each time his erection presented him with the evidence of his arousal, he dealt with his desire in an almost-business-like manner, as though trying to derive the least amount of pleasure as possible. Quickly, with determination, and emitting not a sound, he would stroke the length of his cock, neither slowing nor stopping until his release, thus fulfilling what he viewed to be something of a physical obligation.

His manner of servicing himself, and the attention he paid to it, had not changed in nearly fifteen years. Nevertheless, one day, several months after the fall of Voldemort, his routine was altered irrevocably. He had begun to stroke himself as always, with concentrated disregard. But as he neared his climax, quite unexpectedly, the face of Hermione Granger appeared before him.

He saw nothing more of her body, not even with clothing, let alone naked, but simply her face. And as her visage came unbidden to his mind, his groin contracted convulsively and his orgasm arrived full-force, spewing his come haphazardly before him. A hoarse groan escaped his throat as he bent over, gripping his cock tightly in one hand and reaching for a nearby table for support with the other.

Snape felt weak and sat dazedly upon the bed. He was nothing short of stunned by what had just occurred. In fifteen years he had not imagined another woman. Why had she come to his mind? The power of his orgasm was too great to ignore; it was the most pleasure he had allowed himself to feel in some time.

After taking a few stabilizing breaths, he suddenly felt disgusted with himself. She was only a child; how could he allow himself to imagine her in such a way?

But she wasn't a child, not really. She was seventeen years old, eighteen in the fall, and already of legal age in the wizarding world. And while he may have considered some other girls in their sixth year of school to be children, Hermione certainly did not fit into that category. As he reflected upon her, he recognized that she was one of the youngest to fight against Voldemort, but also one of the most effective. She had a purposefulness, a resoluteness of spirit that few fully-grown women possessed. She was no child.

Still, whether she was of age or not was a matter of semantics, really. Hermione Granger was a student and Severus Snape was a professor. _Her_ professor. In every possible way imaginable, it was inappropriate for him to think of her outside the realm of the student-teacher relationship. He vowed to put her from his mind and return to his routine ways.

And he carefully honored the vow…for three days. Employing tremendous focus, each time he became aroused, he quickly stimulated himself, keeping his mind as blank as possible. His concentration was effective, until the next time he had to face Hermione in the Potions classroom.

Snape sat at his desk as students meandered into the classroom, convincing himself that he was not watching for her arrival. But as she stepped across the threshold and headed for her desk, he knew his vision of her several days prior would not be a one-time occurrence.

Snape watched surreptitiously as Hermione pulled her textbook from her bag and began sorting through ingredients on her desk. As he studied her, he attempted to discern exactly what was causing his sudden interest in her. She wasn't the prettiest of the girls at Hogwarts, nor even in the classroom. She didn't wear makeup, and her hair was a nightmare. She didn't flirt with or tease any of the boys, at least not that he had ever seen. She certainly had never flirted with him. In fact, he was fairly certain she despised him, based on his limited interaction with her to that point. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him to care.

As he ruminated on what he had always supposed to be her shortcomings, he wondered if those qualities weren't what attracted him to her. He had already recognized her obvious talent and skill. If Hermione cared more about employing her abilities in a useful way than she did about taming her hair or batting her eyes at boys, who was he to find fault with that? It wasn't so different from his own outlook on life, after all.

Hermione Granger was on his mind for the rest of the day, and remained there as he pleasured himself that evening. Thereafter, her image became a fixture in his mind's eye, burrowing into his daily gratification routine.

Despite the alteration to his mental habits, Snape did not allow Hermione's new presence in his mind to occupy the same space in his actual life. He treated her no differently than he had before, and allowed no deviation from his daily schedule. The sole difference in his life was the satisfying pleasure he now derived from his arousal, a pleasure he had lost years before.

As a result of his determination not to acknowledge Hermione in any way outside his fantasies, it was with little regret that he found her sixth school year drawing to a close. In fact, during the day, his attention was so much on his educational duties in readying his students for exams, not to mention doling out punishments, that he rarely had time to think of her. And so it was on a Wednesday afternoon, several weeks before the end of term that Snape was thinking only of his work as he strode purposefully through the halls of Hogwarts toward the library.

His intention was stop in the library quickly in order to review the ingredients for a particularly tricky potion he planned to assign to his N.E.W.T. students. But before he could even pull open the door, it burst open and a slight girl laden with books barreled into him. In a whirl of confusion, a dozen books flew through the air and he instinctively reached out to catch the girl before she hit the floor. As his arms circled her waist, a lock of unruly hair whipped by his face and he knew it was her.

He stood up straight, but his arms, no longer seeming to work, did not release their hold on Hermione. It was the closest he had ever stood to her, the first time he could recall ever touching her. The experience was intoxicating. Her mouth was moving, as she apparently offered apologies for colliding with him, but he could not understand what she was saying. He was mesmerized by the fact that his hand was still on her waist and his body was still pressed against the gentle curves that were her right side. After his many nights of fantasizing, the reality of actually holding her was more intense that he could have imagined.

After several more seconds of contact with her, he vaguely realized that she was looking at him. She was no longer speaking, and appeared to be in a state of shock. As he looked into her eyes, he was visited with an intense surge of desire. Recognizing that an erection was imminent, he realized that he should release his hold on her, lest she become aware of his desire as well. With great reluctance, he took a step back. The chilly hall air that swept between them as they separated was most unwelcome. But if he was successful in his battle to hide his growing hardness, he lost the war when it came to disguising his desire for her. For he could not wrench his eyes from her and she seemed to know it. Her soft brown eyes were wide with confusion and her lips were parted, mid-sentence, in surprise.

It was imperative that he regain control of himself and break the spell holding their eyes together. Thinking wildly of something authoritative, yet mundane, to say to the young woman before him, he finally managed, "Perhaps you should look where you are going, Miss Granger."

His words, however, did not seem to have the intended effect. Not only was he as enthralled with her visage as ever, but her eyes had yet to leave his face as well. He told himself to get hold of himself and detached his gaze from her face. As he lowered his eyes, however, he caught sight of something even more beguiling – her throat. After what was undoubtedly hours of intense study in the library, she had left her robe unfastened and had loosened the knot of her tie. As a result, the slightest patch of extra skin peeked out of her collar. Snape was fascinated. It was a piece of her body, a pale, smooth expanse of flesh that he had never seen before. Though he knew the rest of her body to be quite covered by her uniform and robe, he could not help but sweep his eyes lingeringly down her body and back up once again, drinking in her figure with his eyes.

The hollow of her throat, virgin to him, begged for his touch. He yearned to reach out his fingers and stroke the dimpled, soft skin. His hand, still burning from its contact with her waist, twitched at his side as he continued to stare. But, thankfully, before he lost his senses completely and accosted her in the middle of the hallway, she spoke.

"Yes, Professor," came her throaty, breathless response to his reprimand.

Hermione's words had the dual effect of igniting a fire within his gut, while simultaneously dousing him with icy water. His eyes skipped instantly back to hers and what he found there was most peculiar. Though she still seemed utterly confused by their interaction, there was no denying the desire that emanated from her eyes. Heat had crept up her throat and into her cheeks and he could see her breathing accelerate. Coupled with the whispered quality of her voice, he could not mistake her arousal.

But with her apparent reciprocation of his need came her severe, though likely unintentional, reminder of the situation. The title "Professor" reverberated through his being like the crack of a whip and brought him back to reality. He had to get away from her. Immediately.

Without another word, he turned resolutely around and began to walk away, forgetting about his plans to visit the library. Part of him ached to turn back and take her in his arms, while another had to be restrained from running from her as fast as he could. With all of his might, he willed himself to walk steadily, adopting his usual, purposeful stride.

As he turned the corner, however, he broke his gait, and by the time he had made it down two floors, he could go no farther. His arousal washed over him full force, and he became so hot, he thought his blood must have been boiling. His hands were sweaty and he felt feverish, a clammy dampness spreading over his face. His erection, which had just begun presenting itself in Hermione's presence, was in full bloom, straining to break through the multiple layers of fabric disguising it from the world. His head was swimming as his senses competed for dominance – the feel of her body against him, her clean, uncomplicated scent, the sight of her exposed throat…

Feeling dizzy, he stumbled through the closest doorway into an empty classroom. The late afternoon sun directed warm, spring sunlight through the tall windows, creating stripes of dazzling rays across the desks, interspersed with narrow alleys of darkness. With just enough presence of mind to lock the door behind him with a charm, Snape tripped towards a darkened corner of the room, ripping his robe open as he went. His shaking fingers fumbled with his fly, and it was with great frustration that he finally tore his pants open, closing his hand over his throbbing cock with a mingled groan of satisfaction and longing.

With no power to stop himself, he began to stroke the length of his cock with long, punishing strokes, all the while seeing her image before him. Her inquisitive eyes wide with curiosity and surprise. Her cheeks pink and flush, the color spreading up from her open collar. Her mouth, open slightly in anticipation…

His mind seized on the image of her mouth and he moaned as he imagined sinking his teeth into the fleshy fullness of her bottom lip. His hand alternated between stroking his cock and massaging his balls as her swollen, parted lips swam before him. He bit into his own lip as her succulent mouth moved closer to his erection and she wrapped her cherry lips around his head. As her head slid down his shaft, wetting him with the velvet pad of her tongue, he let out a strangled sigh. Within moments, his stroking was synchronized with the vision of her bobbing head. Furiously, he caressed himself as her tongue swirled around him and she swallowed him, taking his length.

The intensity of his orgasm brought him to his knees, and his vision, including of her, was obliterated. After a moment of stillness on the cold floor of the classroom, he regained a modicum of clarity, and remorse and anger replaced the heated lust of only moments before. Rising to his feet, his fury at his lack of control grew by the second as he strode around the room in agitation, pulling at his hair. Finally, overwhelmed by his self-disgust, he lashed out at the nearest object.

"Goddamnit!" he bellowed as his fist swung viciously into the surface of the ancient blackboard next to him. The slate emitted a loud crack as it splintered into dozens of pieces and fell around him on the floor. Though he had caused it, the sound of the board disintegrating startled him, and he dropped into the desk next to it, his head in his hands.

He felt vile and disgusting, and utterly out of control. How could he have lost his senses so? To pleasure himself in a classroom, where anyone could have seen him, could have discovered him…

But even worse…she knew. She had to know how he felt. He could not have made his attraction to her any plainer than if he had taken her right there, in the hall in front of the library. It was insanity. He rose miserably to his feet and rearranged his clothing. Pulling out his wand, he cleaned the up the evidence of his impetuous self-gratification, and repaired the crumbling blackboard.

On his way back to the dungeons, he momentarily entertained a thought that was playing at the back of his mind. He knew full well that the reason he was unable to contain himself even until he reached his room was not because of his attraction to Hermione. Or, at least, not only because of it. It was because of what he perceived, for the first time, to be her attraction to him.

During the few moments it took for him to travel to his office, he remembered her reaction to his intense scrutiny…she seemed surprised of course, but intrigued as well. And aroused. He could still hear her breathless whisper, could almost feel her words slide across his skin.

But as he pulled open the door to his office and stepped inside the dismal room, the glass bubble floating over his head, holding the possibility of her attraction for him within it, shattered on the floor before his feet. He looked around and saw himself for what he truly was: an old, miserable Potions Master who held no allure for a seventeen-year-old young woman. He had exposed himself to her, a fact he tried desperately, if unsuccessfully, to shove to the back of his mind. Perhaps she didn't realize. He clung to the possibility.

Over the next few days, his belief that Hermione felt nothing for him was confirmed by her absolute indifference toward him. Though their lives continued circling in their adjoining orbits, she paid him no mind. She never spared a glance for him, let alone stared at him hungrily. It wasn't long before he accepted the fact that he had let his imagination run away with itself. The realization was, in some ways, liberating, allowing him to feel as though he had escaped narrowly from the jaws of some vicious monster. But at night, as her image haunted him, he was gripped by crushing disappointment.

Despite the letdown, and the long nights spent alone, Snape pressed on determinedly, shoving himself back to his former routine. He would not allow some silly fantasy to disrupt his life. He returned his attention to teaching and pretended to himself that he had never come across Hermione in front of the library.

This time, his resolution not to think of her was much more effective than the first. It lasted nearly two weeks. But it wasn't long before the school year drew to an end and he was forced to confront the reality that she would be leaving for the summer. Two entire months. As much as he had wanted to believe he had relieved himself of his obsession, he knew that he only got through his days by watching her stealthily, the images fueling his lusty desires at night. Two months was an eternity.

The last day of Sixth-Year Potions dawned sultry and hazy. Though summer had yet to arrive officially, it was making its upcoming presence felt quite clearly. Snape had never been particularly fond of the summer months and was relieved to enter the hushed coolness of the dungeons as he prepared for class. The stillness was interrupted, however, by the arrival of his students for class. As usual, the moment she stepped through the door, though he focused his attention on the work in front of him, he allowed himself the pleasure of following her movements out of the corner of his eye.

She never dressed as sloppily as some other students, but on this sticky day, even she had taken some liberties with her uniform, leaving her collar unbuttoned and her tie loose. As she worked, she removed her robe and rolled up her shirtsleeves, exposing her slender wrists and forearms. Her hair, though not exactly tamed, was pulled into a jumbled knot on the top of her head, giving her neck access to the chilled dungeon air.

The difference in her appearance caught his attention, and without realizing it, his surreptitious peeks at her evolved into a penetrating gaze. It wasn't until she made eye contact that he even realized he was watching her openly.

His first instinct as she caught his eye was to turn away. The last thing he wanted was to give her another hint as to his lust for her. But before he made up his mind to avert his eyes, he realized that she had yet to look away either. And, what's more, she wasn't watching him with disgust or laughter. She was turned on.

He watched in fascinated disbelief as her reaction to his stare mimicked the effect she had demonstrated in front of the library. He had convinced himself that her reaction had been all in his head; he saw now that nothing could be further from the truth. The knowledge that he caused such a reaction in her had a dizzying effect on him. He was aroused, to be sure, but he also felt another sensation. A tingle ran down his spine and his chest swelled. After a moment of confusion, he identified the feeling: power.

Of course, he was no stranger to control; there was no doubt as to who was in charge when it came to his classroom. He was well-accustomed to exerting what he knew was a terrifying influence over students. And he knew that his demeanor produced results in that regard. But with women, it was a different story. It had been years since he had had any contact with a woman to whom he was attracted. As Hermione's manner became visibly ruffled, it brought to mind his days as a Death Eater and the authority he had commanded.

Not that he wanted to return to such times. No, there wasn't a day that passed that he wasn't ashamed of his actions. At random, unpredictable times, he would feel the weight of his past press down upon him, and he would have to fight just to remain standing under the pressure. There was no glory in what he had been.

But it wasn't his actions in following the Dark Lord that he recalled in that moment as his eyes rested on Hermione. Instead, it was the fringe activities he had enjoyed while not busy trying to bring about a new regime. It was sex. A lot of sex. Snape had been with more women during that time than he could count, and in each union, he had continually sought to dominate, however harshly, his partner. The rush of power he had received with each act had produced a heady excitement, leading him on successively to each new act.

The experiences never fully satisfied him, however. Though he wouldn't admit it to himself at the time, it was only Lily he had wanted, not any of the dozens of women who threw themselves at his feet. She was the only one for whom he felt a true attraction, not to mention other, deeper, unmentionable feelings, but her love for him was in friendship only. And later, of course, not at all.

All of this came to mind instantly as his eyes bore into Hermione's. For the first time in his life, it was as though the two sides of his sexual experience had come together: his dark, twisted need for control meeting the hungry, longing attraction for an individual. It was as though Lily had turned to him suddenly with her striking green eyes and said, "I want you."

Not that there was any confusion over who was sitting before him now. He was fully aware that it was Hermione, not Lily, watching him with mingled fear and desire. As their eyes held, the classroom around them fell away, and it was only the two of them. He was doing everything possible to control the display of his growing arousal. Though he wanted her to know his attraction, he didn't want the rest of the class clued in to that particular fact. And so he prayed silently that he was doing a better job than she of keeping his lack of oxygen from manifesting itself in a heaving chest, or from his pale skin coloring to a deep crimson.

The seconds passed and the tension between them became palpable. He could see no way to end this silent interaction without some action and the only action he cared to take was to rip her clothes from her body and sink into her waiting flesh. But it was with an immense mastery of his will that he recognized the inappropriateness of such an act.

Finally, as the tension grew to an unbearable level, and he thought that he would go mad if he could not touch her, a loud explosion from the opposite side of the room shattered the moment between them and their connection was lost. For a moment, he was unable to comprehend what had caused the disruption to their private moment and he turned his eyes to a simmering mess of orange potion covering two twitching Slytherins, the skin of whom was gradually stretching and drooping away from their bodies. Other students surrounding them were covering their noses and swiping at watering eyes as yellow smoke enveloped the corner of the room. In an instant, Snape was on his feet and sorting out the chaos. By the time he had returned the last student's body to its normal shape, class had ended and Hermione had left the room.

Despite his dread of the upcoming summer, it passed more quickly than he had anticipated. There was always plenty of work to do, readying the classroom for the new school year, updating old and drafting new lesson plans, ordering potion ingredients, avoiding Hagrid during his drunken free evenings, during which he attempted to toast everyone and everything in the school…there was plenty to occupy his time. Still, it was with barely-stifled anticipation that he counted down the days to September.

Finally, the evening of the 1st arrived, and Snape entered the Great Hall for the Welcome Feast, doing his best to keep his usual mask of perturbed condescension in place. Eventually, the students began to wander into the Hall, exuberant at the start of the school year, greeting old friends and finding their places at the long house tables. When he caught sight of her unruly mass of hair, he almost gave a start, but managed to stifle his reaction, lest one of his colleagues notice his state of excitement.

However, as the evening wore on, though he stared at her quite diligently, she did not glance his way even one time. Though two months has passed since last he saw her, he was quite certain he had not imagined her reaction to him during her last class. What had happened over the summer to turn her from him? Perhaps she had lost interest? At the thought, a lead weight dropped into his stomach and he felt ill. Pushing his food away, he sat in sullen silence for the rest of the evening, doggedly ignoring the polite inquiries of his fellow professors.

Dawn brought about the first morning of classes, and Snape dragged himself to the Great Hall to greet the new term. Still feeling the affects of Hermione's rejection from the night before, he again sat quietly at the head table as he forced himself to drink some coffee. For the majority of breakfast, he was careful not to allow his gaze to wander in her direction, not wanting to reinforce his feelings of inadequacy and dismissal. However, without meaning to, he found himself absently watching as Professor McGonagall stood before Hermione, rifling through her stack of parchment schedules as the new term got underway.

It was several moments before his lackadaisical brain recognized that her course selection with McGonagall was not going smoothly. Though he could not hear their conversation, he got the impression that Hermione was flustered and McGonagall, impatient. And when her eyes darted fleetingly in his direction before she provided some unknown response to the professor standing before her, his interest was piqued.

What had she said to McGonagall? Would she continue with Potions? Until that moment, he had never considered the possibility that she would not be in his class that fall. Though he was fully cognizant of the fact that anything more than caressing her with his eyes was out of the question, the thought of being able to watch her clandestinely was what had allowed him to get through the long summer months. Now, the prospect of the school year, her last, passing with only glimpses of her in the Great Hall, brought to mind a very bleak year.

Unsettled and shaken by this turn of events, he rose abruptly from the staff table and exited the Hall via the side chamber, not wishing to pass through the student body before him. He passed the time between breakfast and the first Seventh-Year Potions lesson in a state of great agitation. His worry, however, turned out to be needless, and he sighed almost audibly with relief as she entered the classroom later that morning, trailed by her two moronic sidekicks. Why Potter and Weasley were taking N.E.W.T.-level Potions was beyond him. But even the satisfaction he usually derived at mentally berating the pair was negligible in comparison to the thrill he felt at Hermione's presence in his classroom.

Clearly, she had had some doubts over taking his class, but in the end, she had returned. His conviction at her attraction to him reinforced, the feeling of power from the previous spring returned full force. With her presence in his classroom an almost daily reminder, his evening fantasies became more elaborate, and his gratification more satisfying.

At first, he was careful not to allow his sly gazes at her to be noticed. He recalled the intensity of their moment during her last day of class the year before, and just as clearly recalled his overwhelming desire at that time to ravish her before an entire classroom full of her fellow classmates. He didn't trust himself not to lose control, and so he was scrupulous in keeping all of his non-fantasy dealings with her above-board. Despite his intentions however, there were several occasions on which she caught his eye as he pinned her with his gaze. And her reaction each time was not lost on him.

Finally, there came a day late in the fall when he allowed his defenses to drop for a brief moment, initiating their first non-educational verbal exchange since the day by the library. Class had ended, but Hermione's desk was still littered with potion ingredients and her books and notes were scattered about. By the time she managed to clear her space and stow her books in her bag, the room had emptied of the other students. With no one there to catch him but her, he could not help but stare as she efficiently and meticulously cleaned her desk. Without turning toward him, she headed for the door, and he felt a twinge of disappointment. Just before her hand reached for the door, however, her eyes flickered in his direction at the front of the room and she slowed momentarily. It was all the invitation he needed, and unable to hold himself back, he addressed her.

"I trust you'll have a…pleasant…evening, Miss Granger," he said, not thinking of the veiled vulgarity of his comment until he had made it, but knowing full well that he meant what he said. Over the previous few weeks, she had caught him with watching her with increasing frequency, and her arousal at each discovery was noticeable. During the last couple of classes, in fact, he had just about allowed her to catch his eye, just for the thrill of viewing her reaction.

Though he couldn't exactly call himself an expert on women, he was fairly certain that Hermione did not leave her attraction to him behind when she exited the classroom each day. He was perfectly aware of how much their mute, but heated interactions fueled his own self-gratification. He didn't need to employ Legilimency to know that an eighteen-year-old woman probably pleasured herself at night as she lay alone in her four-poster bed. But if he was gambling in his suggestive flirting with Hermione during class, the statement that had so thoughtlessly left his mouth moments before had surely raised the stakes.

Despite its impropriety, he was secretly happy with himself for having made the comment when he saw her shocked reaction. She had obviously understood his meaning. That thrill of control that came upon him almost daily of late returned once more. He was in no way prepared, however, for her response. Her shocked expression quickly smoothed into one of coy amusement, as a small smile curled her lips sensuously and she arched one eyebrow suggestively.

"Oh, no doubt, Professor Snape, it will be a very pleasurable evening."

He had no response. Where had that come from? Never had he anticipated that she would acknowledge the game progressing between them. He watched silently as she left the classroom, and for the second time, he was visited with a descending desire so absolute, he was unable to control himself until he reached a more suitable location. With the sound of the closing door still echoing through the dungeon chamber, he sank into his chair, pulled out his painfully throbbing erection, and he brought himself to climax within moments. All the while, the image of her arched eyebrow and sultry pout lingered before him.

That evening, Snape sat pensively in an armchair in his room, his elbows resting on his knees and his head supported by his clasped hands. Though to an outsider, he may have appeared to be sitting still for hours, in truth, his muscles were taut and his mind was racing. Rather than accepting his growing inability to control his libido around Hermione Granger, he had become even more disgusted with himself than on the previous occasion when desire had held him in its unassailable grip.

Though he could not recall ever having been in such a position, he realized now that he was out of control, and to be so was simply unforgivable. Had the lingering glances remained at the silent, distant level of the previous months, who knows how long they might have continued. And while he knew it was wrong to indulge in such behavior, if no true action came of it, what was the harm? But that afternoon, he had guided the matter into a whole new territory, in which he was unsure of the terrain. He had gone too far.

But it wasn't just his own lack of restraint that troubled him as he finally rose from his chair to begin his rounds on hall duty for the night. He had lobbed an impromptu pass at Hermione that afternoon, and she had unexpectedly run with the ball. A growing uneasiness accompanied him around the castle, as well as a tiny flicker of annoyance. What exactly did she think she was doing? If she fancied herself to be a match for him, she had another thing coming. Without realizing it, that day at the library, he had extended a challenge, and now she apparently felt equal to the test.

He stormed through the halls with long, angry strides, furious at her presumptive gall. If she had been trying to provoke him, she had been successful. So worked up over her taunt was he, in fact, that he did not recognize for quite some time that he was equally turned on by her parry. But when yet another erection threatened to force him into yet another darkened classroom, the madness of the situation dawned on him.

He was teetering on the brink of a disastrous obsession, and it was high time he pulled himself back to safety. When he returned to his chambers at the completion of his hall duty, he felt tired, but satisfied in his decision to walk away from his infatuation with his student. He felt no concern that the decision would be difficult to enforce: when he put his mind to something, he was successful, and thus, successful in this endeavor he would be. Whether or not Hermione cooperated.

When Snape awoke the next morning, after only a few hours of sleep, his certainty in his decision of the previous night seemed to have slipped slightly. However, he did not fail at tasks, and he looked at this decision as no different than brewing a potion. Nevertheless, he was grateful that Seventh-Year Potions was not scheduled that day; it allowed him more time to steel his reserve before seeing her in class again.

The day passed slowly, and on more than one occasion, he found that he had to tear himself away from a prohibited daydream. His resolution was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but he would not be defeated. Wearily, he progressed through his classes, doing everything possible to ensure that she was the furthest thing from his mind.

It was with great trepidation that he approached the descending evening. The night opened before him like a great carpet, inviting free time and fantasy. Determined to avoid the invitation, he decided it was best to remain in his classroom for as long as possible, grading papers and otherwise immersing himself in work. The prospect of idle hands and an unoccupied mind invited trouble.

The hours passed as Snape graded essay after essay on the uses of dragon's blood in potion-making and the effects of the Draught of Living Death on non-humans. Though the quality of the students' writing was abysmal, as usual, the work had a soothing, repetitive quality that allowed him to escape his own thoughts for a while.

However engrossed he may have been in the essays, his training as a Death Eater and his quick reflexes developed over a childhood as the target of bullies would not allow him to be oblivious to the quiet opening and closing of the classroom door. Without sparing a second for thought, he jumped to his feet, his essays forgotten. His hand steady, despite the late hour and his lack of sleep, he aimed his wand at the doorway.

"Show yourself," he ordered, his voice sharp and fierce. For a moment, there was no response, and his brain quickly ran through the various spells at his disposal that would be most effective at this moment. But before he attempted to confront with his wand the invisible perpetrator, Hermione appeared in front of the door, as though out of thin air, Potter's Invisibility Cloak falling to her side.

Snape felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Truly, this moment was as much the stuff of his worst nightmare as it was his deepest fantasy, both rolled into one diminutive package, and placed right in front of his eyes. Just the night before, he had resolved to walk away from her and her naïve allure and here she was, thrusting her presence before him, demanding his attention.

Though his resolve may have wavered, he did his best not to allow his countenance to belie such feelings. Lowering his wand and sitting before his desk once more, he feigned boredom and ordered her to return to bed. First and foremost, he was supremely aware of the impropriety of having a female student in his classroom after curfew. But even as he reminded himself of that fact, a devilish voice from the back of his brain urged him to take advantage of her sudden appearance.

Despite the temptation, he decided to return to his work, determined to ignore her extremely distracting presence. There was no ignoring her response, however, as she asked, "Are you going to punish me?"

Snape's hand froze in midair over his parchment. He could not move. Indecision tore at him. Though he had not looked up at her, when he sensed her sauntering approach to his desk, he forced himself to take action.

"Miss Granger, you should not be here. It is highly inappropriate. I suggest that you return to your dormitory at once." It was as though the words have never left his lips, for all the effect they had on her. She continued her progress across the room, shedding items of clothing as she advanced. It was impossible not to watch her fingers slide across her chest and unbutton her robe.

By the time she reached his chair, he sprang into action once again, moving to pick up her robe and direct her out of the room. But he had hardly moved an inch from his seat when he found himself bound to the chair with magical ropes. It took a few seconds for him to process the reality of the situation. Foolishly, he had tossed his wand upon the desktop when he retook his seat, in hindsight a glaringly obvious error in judgment.

He struggled briefly against his bonds, but they were much too tight for him to even attempt to escape. Despite his predicament, he couldn't help but admire her spellwork. He knew she had not said the incantation aloud and he barely noticed the flick of her wand. She was a very good witch.

Though later he would recognize his continued attempts at averting the coming disaster to be foolish, at that moment, he had not yet abandoned his intentions to be good. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, knowing full well the consequences of looking her in the eye. His will held out until she demanded that he turn his eyes to her face. It was as though the Imperius curse had descended upon him; without thinking, he lifted his gaze.

As their eyes met, he attempted to convey to her his disgust and fury at being held captive against his will. But he knew that he was not wholly successful in disguising from her the fire she was igniting within him. And not helping matters was the obvious fact that she was distinctly aroused as well. Though for the first time, it had not been his intention, their locked gaze was becoming yet another moment between them, of growing intensity and burgeoning possibility. For a brief period of time, he forgot exactly why he was struggling against her.

Hermione's chest was heaving up and down as she reached up to remove her tie. The action stirred something within him and he made a last ditch effort to stop her, knowing his protests would be fruitless.

"Miss Granger! Let me go at once. This is wrong." Despite his protestations, his eyes followed her every movement as she unbuttoned her shirt and demanded his discipline for her bad actions.

"Oh, I know it's wrong, Professor. I know I'm being bad. That's why I need your discipline." He watched her luscious mouth form the words, trying to make sense of everything. But then her skirt was sliding down her thighs and any attempt to understand what was being said was abandoned.

She was walking closer to him once again, now clad only in her bra and panties, shoes and socks. The image was breathtaking. Standing before him, she dug her fingers into his clothed chest and electric sparks shot through his skin, straight to his groin. It was ecstasy and it was torture.

With a graceful movement, she mounted his lap, coming face to face with him. She was still looking him straight in the eye and he was finding it difficult to resist her in any way, shape, or form. He wasn't entirely certain she wasn't using some sort of unknown magic upon him. As she lowered her hips slightly to brush the crotch of her panties against his strained fly, however, all thoughts of magic flew out the window and his attention refocused solely on the agony taking place below his waist. Slowly, painfully, she ground herself against his bulging hardness and he threw his head back and groaned.

She was speaking again, and he opened his eyes to focus on her mouth once more. He noticed that her lips, the subject of so many fantasies, were slightly chapped. The imperfection appealed to him and he longed to feel her lips pressed against his. Just as he considered moving forward to kiss her, she licked those sultry lips and leaned forward slightly. "Professor," she murmured, just a hair away from his mouth, "I want to fuck you."

He could feel her words vibrate through his body, and a bolt of electricity, a hundred times larger than the little shocks he had been experiencing, shot through him to his engorged cock. His body tightened at the pleasure and at the same moment, her parted lips met his. Without hesitation, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, seeking hers. As their tongues met, she pressed her body a little closer to him, and her hips began to pulse rhythmically against his.

Her hands had begun to explore his body, and he felt an undeniable urge to do the same. Without his hands at his disposal however, his only available tool was his tongue. Thus, he employed it thoroughly, investigating the hills and valleys of her neck, the gentle slope behind her ear. Her earlobe was particularly interesting, as its probing produced a quite voracious response from its owner.

Snape was lost as he was subsumed by the sensation that was her. It was as though every molecule of his body existed just to be touched by her in this way. He wanted more, and yet he didn't want this perfect feeling to disappear. The perfection of the moment was destroyed, however, by a smart knocking on the classroom door.

He felt Hermione tighten against him and stared into her face as she withdrew, terrified. The sound of the knock continued to echo long after the knock itself ceased, but whether that was a result of the cavernous dungeon chamber or it was only in his own head, he was unsure. He was stricken with a blind sense of panic and indecision, a state completely unknown to him. Of course, until that point in time, he had never found himself in such circumstances before.

He was saved from having to make a decision by Hermione's quick departure from his lap to under his desk. She summoned her strewn-about clothing to her outstretched hand and retreated under the desktop, making no move to free him from his bonds. He was outraged by her seeming plan to abandon him in such a state to the incoming visitor, but recognized that, once again, he had little recourse. To his chagrin, she seemed very much satisfied with this turn of events as her head ducked out of view.

At the very least, she was out of sight as the door to the classroom swung open and Draco Malfoy stepped inside. Until that moment, Snape had completely forgotten about him. He had received a detention for threatening a second-year Hufflepuff in the hall several days before. Normally, Snape would not have assigned a detention to a student of his own house, at least when he could help it, but was forced to in this instance because McGonagall had been standing nearby at the time of the incident.

Snape checked to ensure that his bound hands were far enough under the desk to be out of view and then addressed Malfoy, "What do you want?" Though he knew he had completed his detention, his only thought was to get him out of the classroom as quickly as possible.

Malfoy launched into a detailed explanation on the results of his research in the library on the unpredictable effects of moonstones on potions containing lionfish spine. Snape attempted to focus his attention on the information being relayed by Malfoy and not on the girl beneath his desk. His focus was severely tested, however, when he felt a pair of hands slide up his legs and gently pull his tumescent member from his pants.

She was breathing lightly on his cock and he squirmed anxiously in anticipation of her mouth making contact with the sensitive head. When, at least, her warm, slippery mouth surrounded his cock, he was unable to stifle the groan that emitted from his throat.

Malfoy stopped talking mid-sentence and looked questioningly at Snape. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes, fine, not feeling well," Snape responded vaguely, his mind entirely on the tongue curling around his swollen head. Gradually, she began to take his length into her mouth, probing further with each dip of her head. Unable even to look at Malfoy, he barked at him to write up his research in an essay and hand it in the next day. To his dismay, Malfoy responded, "Oh, but I have, here you go. But I wanted to point out to you this odd passage here…."

Snape was no longer listening. The only thing in the world that existed was Hermione's mouth on his cock. Malfoy continued to babble, until Snape snapped at him, "Enough, fine, go!"

Malfoy, no longer respectful of his professor since the fall of Voldemort and the discovery of Snape's role in the war, did not cower the way most other students would have at his harsh words. Instead, he directed yet another odd look at his professor. Finally, he headed towards the door and exited the classroom.

A moment after Malfoy's departure, Hermione released Snape from her enthralling mouth and climbed out from under the desk. Despite his acute disappointment at the removal of her oral attention, he was overwhelmed with an intense anger at her that momentarily outstripped his appreciation of her efforts.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Did you want to get caught?" he practically shouted at her. As the words left his mouth, it occurred to him that she did. Or maybe she didn't want to get caught, exactly, but wanted the excitement of knowing it was possible. Comprehending her actions, he asked, "You did want to get caught, didn't you?"

Hermione didn't answer him immediately and he took that to answer his question in the affirmative. After a moment of what appeared to be indecision on her part, she swiftly removed her bra and panties and approached him once again. A tornado of emotions swirled through him as he tried to process the image before him. Her naked body seemed to emanate a glow in the gloomy torchlight of the classroom and he ached to touch her.

As she began to remove his pants, she unfastened his bindings, and did not bother to re-secure him once his pants were gone. She employed the same process with his robe and shirt, and he soon found himself sitting naked before her, with no restraints holding him back.

In that moment, he recognized his choice. With his bonds removed, it was his first and last opportunity to put a stop to everything, before it truly passed the point of no return. Competing with his first option was the recognition of what Hermione intended. And despite the fact that he knew it was a colossally bad decision, his desire to give in to Hermione's intentions far outweighed his conscience in this regard. Thus, as she reclaimed her position atop his lap once more, though he voiced a feeble protest, he did nothing physically to keep her from touching him.

Once in position, she commanded him in a husky voice, "Touch me, Professor." The use of his title again hit home, as a final reminder of the impropriety of his actions. Despite its wince-inducing effect, however, it did not stop him from immediately reaching for her supple breasts. With the first touch, a longing of months and months was fulfilled. It was apparent that Hermione desired his touch just as much as he longed to touch her, and she moaned as his nimble fingers slid across her hardened nipples.

Her mouth descended upon his once more, and the kiss quickly deepened into a hot, searching embrace, accompanied by hands greedily demanding access to more and more flesh. His mouth traveled down her throat and she threw her head back at the pleasure of his tongue.

When she raised her head once more, their eyes connected. As her hand slid between them, he caught a gleam in her eye, a triumphant twinkle, while a smug smile of satisfaction graced her mouth. The look was reminiscent of the smile she had given him the day before in the classroom, as she taunted him with her allusions to her nighttime fantasies. In an instant, it occurred to him that she believed she was _winning_.

Immediately, he was infuriated. He felt manipulated. She had come to him that night demanding satisfaction from him, and she would extract it in the way she chose. She had bound him to a chair and tortured him in the most offensive manner. Never mind that he had actually derived pleasure from any of it; he was the decision-maker, he was the operator. He could not allow her to take the upper hand. He would not.

Her hand was on his cock, ready to be guided into her awaiting body. She still held her gaze, and he knew she was eager to watch his face as she took him within her. Little did she know that he would not allow her such satisfaction.

Just as the head of his cock met the lips of her pussy, he tightened his hold around her waist. In the moment it took for him to stand, he watched with pleasure as her face registered the change in his countenance. Standing swiftly, he flipped her around with one arm as he shoved her body into the desk in front of her. He slid his left hand onto her hip and tangled his long fingers into her surprisingly soft hair. Within a matter of seconds from standing up, he kicked her legs apart, aimed carefully, and thrust his cock deep into her waiting pussy.

Though his initial entry had taken but seconds, it seemed to Snape as though the moment had happened in slow motion. The combined feelings of her tight, lush pussy surrounding his hard cock and his dominating hold over her body nearly overwhelmed him. He was almost hesitant to withdraw from her, so intense was the pleasure he was feeling, but did withdraw only because of the promise of increased pleasure in thrusting into her once more.

Snape was so lost in his own enjoyment of his ravishment of Hermione that he had begun stroking into her in an established rhythm before he heard her moans of satisfaction. For a moment, he was surprised, and the sounds of her obvious stimulation both excited and angered him. Without losing the momentum of his thrusting, he tightened his hold on her hair and yanked her head back towards him forcefully. His left hand snaked around her side and gripped possessively at her breast. Despite the almost violent nature of his movements, however, she seemed to respond with greater satisfaction.

The pressure in his balls was beginning to build and the sight of her so subjugated before him only served to stimulate him. He pulled her head closer to his own and lowered his lips to her ear.

"Do not question my authority, Miss Granger," he whispered into her eager ear. "You _have_ been a bad girl and I _will_ punish you." With her face pulled towards his own, he could see her close her eyes at his words and let out a shivering sigh. He released his tight grip on her head and placed his hands on her hips, the better to direct his long, deep strokes into her body. For a time, each became lost to the rhythm and heat of each other's bodies.

Though he never could have predicted it, it appeared that the rougher he treated her and the more humiliation he heaped upon her, the more stimulation she displayed. Based on her obvious play for domination only minutes before, he had not expected such utter capitulation to his will. Nevertheless, her arousal at his force could not be ignored.

Snape's release built closer and closer. He was determined, however, to bring about her orgasm first. He could not allow her, at such a crucial moment, to defeat him in that manner. He stemmed the rising tide and encouraged her release. Without warning, he smacked his hand firmly on her ass, calling her a bad girl as he did so. Though she was clearly surprised by the attack, she was just as clearly receptive to it, as she moaned with pleasure and thrust her pelvis backwards in an attempt to draw more of his cock within her.

He could tell that she was nearing her release, and he was grateful because he knew would not be able to hold out much longer. As it was, he was unable to stroke into her without grunting with each pulse. In an effort to spur her on, he continued his barrage of slaps in time with his strokes as he groaned, "You're a bad girl, Miss Granger."

Her responses were becoming nigh hysterical, and at the very least were unintelligible. Finally, with a great, shuddering cry, she came, her body collapsing onto the desk as she rode wave after wave of her orgasm. The walls of her pussy had tightened into a pulsing vice around his cock, which had hardened slightly. His thrusts slowed as he felt his own orgasm nearing. Just before he could withdraw and enter one last time, however, Hermione's hand slid between her legs to the juncture of the base of his cock and her soaking, quivering pussy. Her fingers slid sensually around his balls and she massaged them lightly.

He had not expected her touch, and the feeling overwhelmed him. Instantly, all went dark before his eyes and his groin convulsed almost painfully. His orgasm crashed over him and he felt his come burst forth in hot jets, deep into Hermione. All the while, he bent over her, emitting a guttural groan. When the spasms ceased and he the last drop of come had been spewed into her awaiting body, he withdrew and stumbled backward into his desk chair, his knees unable to support his weight any longer. His hands trembled and he lacked the ability to focus on any one thought for more than a second.

Looking up, he found Hermione watching him with a curious expression on her face. Her thighs glistened with their combined come and he groaned as she retrieved some with her fingers and licked them clean. Even after his thunderous orgasm, the action triggered a flicker of arousal.

She approached him in his desk chair and straddled him once more. She was still looking into his eyes. She lowered her mouth to his and he could taste their mingled come on her lips and tongue. Still dazed by their encounter, he could not find it within himself to respond to her actions. Finally, she rose from him, donning various parts of her uniform and gathering the remainder of her clothing to her body. Still, he could not escape the fog surrounding his head. She turned towards the classroom door as she threw the Invisibility Cloak over her head.

Before the door opened however, some of the fog cleared, and the realization of what had just occurred descended upon him. He needed to stop her. It was imperative that he not let her leave the room without saying something. Impulsively, he called out to her, "Miss Granger."

After a moment, her head appeared near the doorway as she turned to face him questioningly. But as her face was revealed, he found himself to be at a loss for words. What could he possibly say after what had just happened? As his head became increasingly fog-free, a feeling of trepidation settled in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't a feeling he could quite identify, but he felt the urge to apologize to her. However, when he said nothing for several long moments, she filled the silence for him.

"Goodnight, Professor." Her head disappeared and the classroom door opened and closed. She was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

After a very long delay, this is Chapter 2 of what will be a three-part story. Please let me know what you think!

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Snape continued to stare at the dungeon door long after the echoing thud of its closing had ceased reverberating through the room. For several moments, though his mind contained a jumble of images, he did not produce one coherent thought. It was not as though he was unable to do so, however, he merely refused to allow himself to contemplate what had just occurred.

As he sat in his desk chair, the trembling that had begun in his hands began to spread up his arms and through the rest of his body until he was shaking uncontrollably. Swaying as he stood, he reached for his robe to cover his naked form. To his dismay, however, he found that his tremors prevented him from grasping the fabric; it took three attempts before he had the robe securely in his grip.

Snape proceeded slowly toward the classroom door, unsure of his step. Not bothering to extinguish the torches in the classroom, he retreated to the empty hallway and made his way through the serpentine halls toward his bedchamber. As he entered the room, he circumvented the glow of the fireplace, in a cautious attempt to avoid shedding any light on the thoughts playing at the corners of his mind. But it was no use. No amount of darkness could disguise the memories of his recent acts. As he stood huddled in a darkened corner, one by one, images flew through his mind, images that burnt a shameful, lingering haze into his brain.

Suddenly, he turned on his heel and strode across the room, hoping his decisive movement would trick his mind, leaving his unpleasant thoughts behind. He was mistaken. With each determined step, the images became clearer, brighter. There she was, sprawled face-down across his desk. He could feel her skin as it yielded to his demanding touch, flesh that would certainly bruise later. As he entered his bathroom, the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears kept time with the echo of her rhythmic cries.

What had he done? In a fit of delirium, he had taken leave of his senses, acting on his basest desires. It was true that over the past few months, he had committed several acts of indiscretion, pleasuring himself outside the privacy of his room. But never did he imagine he could lose control of himself so absolutely. She was his pupil, his trusting student, and he had violated irrevocably the sanctity of their relationship. He was disgusted with himself.

The memories of his actions continued to claw at his brain. He felt her on his lap, felt her throat and breasts beneath his lips. And then he was picking her up, throwing her on the desk…he was entering her. At the time, he had thought of nothing but his own escape, his own pleasure, his own strength and domination of her. But as he relived the moment a second time, he could see more clearly the fear on her face as the power shifted out of her hands and into his own. He could hear her body slam against the wooden desk, hear her cry as thrust into her.

Had she been a virgin? It was a question he hadn't bothered to ask himself earlier that evening, and he certainly hadn't given any consideration to any pain she might have experienced. In fact, in the moment, he had welcomed any pain she suffered, punishing her for her challenge to his authority. There she was again, standing naked before him, telling him to punish her. She wanted it.

Almost in spite of himself, even as he mentally condemned his actions of the hours prior, he suddenly found himself becoming, unbelievably, aroused.

It was maddening how she could tempt him, tease him, torture him. He felt himself pounding into her without mercy and he was simultaneously turned on and disgusted. As his erection grew under his unfastened robes, he let out a cry of frustration and pulled wildly at his hair. Though the appeal of relieving himself of his arousal was huge, even bigger was his self-loathing at his inability to master such feelings.

His body continued to shake and his heart was pounding as he entered his bathroom. In an effort to calm himself, he braced his body above the sink with his arms and took a few deep breaths. As he lifted his gaze to the mirror before him, however, his stomach lurched. His eyes met their reflection in the glass and, for a moment, he saw himself plainly. As he viewed himself, the conflicting sensations and emotions of the evening finally came to deafening climax. Unable to stop himself, he retched into the sink before him, heaving and choking.

For a few moments, he was still, clinging to the basin. But the sights and sounds continued to swirl in his brain, and his desperation and desire continued to assault him in equal measure. Finally, with no other solutions at his disposal to remedy his despairing condition, he reached for his strongest sleeping draught, swallowed three times the normal dosage and collapsed on his bed.

He awoke several hours later, having slept only fitfully, despite his heavy drugging. His sleep had been fevered and restless, and he had tossed and turned discontentedly, woozy nightmares flitting through his brain. When he finally rose from his rumpled bed, his goal became singularly clear: to avoid Hermione at all costs.

He was in no way ready to face her. The shame and humiliation he felt at having treated her in such an abominable manner crept stealthily through his body and settled in his stomach, refusing to budge. His only small source of comfort was the fact that it was Friday; she would not be in his classroom that day.

As he bathed, his thoughts were scattered and incoherent; he had no idea how he would manage to teach a class. He dressed haphazardly, feeling a vague sense of gratitude that his all-black wardrobe required no thought. His lack of sleep, combined with his lustful self-loathing formed a cloak of shame that settled heavily upon his shoulders. When he finally departed the dungeons for the Great Hall, it took steady concentration to walk at his normal brisk pace. No matter what he had done, he would not give others the satisfaction of viewing publicly his private despair.

As he strode through the entrance hall, however, his step faltered. Cheerful voices and the clattering of silverware on plates announced to him that breakfast was in full swing. Could he enter, knowing she was likely inside? He stood at the entrance to the Great Hall for what seemed an eternity, indecision tearing at him. He wanted nothing more than to return to his chambers, never having to face her again. As his resolve crumbled, his inability to enter the Great Hall solidified. Finally, there was nothing for it but to walk away.

As he turned to beat a hasty retreat to the dungeon, however, the door of the Hall swung open and a familiar tousle of brown hair came into view. Snape held his breath, his heart beating madly, for where Harry Potter went, Hermione Granger usually followed. It took a moment for him to recognize, however, that Potter was trailed only by Ron Weasley. The boys passed by him without a second glance and within seconds, were up the staircase.

Snape let out his breath slowly, willing his heartbeat to return to normal. She was not there. He was safe. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he would run into her. At the very least, Potions was on Monday. But he was surprised to find that, along with the massive reprieve he felt at her nonappearance in the entrance hall, there was a tinge of disappointment. He had spent months looking forward to each opportunity to catch a glimpse of her, of each hour spent in the same classroom. He had reveled in their game of stolen glances and escalating arousal. In his inability to control himself, he had destroyed something he desperately treasured – their private, unspoken relationship. The possibility that he might feel only dread and fear at the thought of her presence saddened him. What had he done?

With a heavy heart, Snape entered the Great hall, no longer fearing her presence. At the staff table, he took only coffee, casting glowering looks across the room. The staff appeared to appreciate his mood and did not attempt to relieve him of whatever was burdening him by forcing conversation.

Snape's mood continued throughout the day and carried into the weekend. His mind replayed the events of Thursday night repeatedly, and he alternately found himself despairing and aroused. When he did finally give into the pressure of his pounding erection, he came with an explosive force that gave way to another bout of irrepressible trembling. As the weekend wore on and Monday's Potions class loomed larger and larger, his fear at seeing her and his absolute physical need to be with her spiraled wildly until he thought he might go mad. By Monday morning, he was existing in a state of pure nervous exhaustion.

He struggled through his first class, barking orders at his Third-Years until two students dissolved into tears. Though such a sight usually gave him some satisfaction, today it only served to agitate him further. N.E.W.T.-level Potions was approaching quickly and he had no idea how to even begin to prepare. Time marched forward without his consent and, all too soon, morning break had ended and students were filing into the classroom.

Sitting at his desk, he set his face as an implacable mask, determined not to demonstrate any reaction to her presence when she entered the room. He had not seen her since Thursday night. One by one, the students entered the dungeon, talking amongst themselves, opening bookbags onto desks. And then the door closed behind the last student and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly, awaiting the start of class. She was not there.

Without warning, rage rose inside him like a gust of wind. She was never late for class. Potter and Weasley were at their normal table, which seemed a big, black void without her presence. No, she was not simply late, this was deliberate. She was punishing him.

Despite his fear only moments before at being in the same room with her, all rational thought disappeared and he felt only anger and resentment at her presumption that she could choose not to attend his class. With a fury that, moments before, would have seemed impossible, he commenced the lesson by berating a student for coughing too loudly and proceeded to eviscerate as many students as possible throughout the course of the morning.

That evening, Snape's wrath burned within in him as he huddled in his bed, prompting, as was becoming routine, a burning desire to dominate her, to force her submission and subjugation. As his hand fervidly stroked his rigid member, he imagined her kneeling before him, his hands buried in her wild mass of curls. He groaned aloud as he vividly felt his strong fingers dig into her scalp and thrust her bobbing head farther down his throbbing cock. He pulled faster and faster as he felt the pad of her tongue slide sensually down his shaft and his sensitive head grazed the back of her throat. His stroke lengthened and quickened as he imagined his hands forcing her hot mouth deeper and deeper onto him. And then, suddenly, though his fantasy was only just getting started, he was coming, hard, all over himself, the shock of the agonizing pleasure waking him from his all-to-realistic reverie.

Slowly, he recovered from the intensity of his pleasure. The orgasm appeared to have had the effect of diminishing to a great extent the rage that had coursed through his veins since her failure to attend his class that morning. But he had failed to appreciate that this anger had served as a useful buffer to his overwhelming guilt at his actions. Moreover, his most recent fantasy only served to create additional guilt for his allowance of such an extreme and degrading fantasy. His disgust in himself returned.

Tuesday morning found Snape dining morosely at the staff table in the Great Hall. His fluctuations in temperament, from anger to lust to guilt and then back to anger, wore on his patience with himself. He was losing control.

Brooding over his predicament, Snape reached for his coffee cup. As his fingers touched the handle, however, his eyes were drawn up over the table to a familiar head of bushy hair. She was there. How had he missed her entrance? His hand frozen over his cup, he was unable to look away from her and he was certain that his eyes must have been boring actual holes into her head. He was sorely tempted to use Legilimency at that moment, but refrained. It was a point of pride that he did not resort to such low tricks when not necessary.

Despite his constant staring, however, Hermione failed to turn her eyes in his direction. If anything, it seemed she was deliberately focusing her gaze in every direction but his. He was careful not to let on that anything – or anyone – had captured his attention, but kept a watchful eye on her through the entire meal. And throughout, she kept her eyes firmly averted.

Snape's sense of frustration and anger expanded and sharpened with each meal, during which Hermione avoided him resolutely. When she failed to appear in class on Wednesday, his agitation reached the near-boiling point. Finally, when her seat again remained empty at the start of class on Thursday, he had had enough.

"Potter! Weasley! Where, exactly, is Miss Granger?" he barked across the classroom. The boys looked sideways at one another and hesitated before answering.

"I don't think she's feeling well, sir," answered Harry finally, but not without an air of shiftiness in his reply. Snape trained his narrowed eyes on the pair, determined to wrench the truth from them. The rest of the class watched on, silently.

"She's not feeling well…is that so?" asked Snape, staring at Ron, who had turned a deep shade of red and could not meet Snape's eyes.

Harry, who seemed to have recognized that Ron would crack before long, replied in a firm tone, "Yes, sir. That's so." Snape slid his sharp eyes back to Harry, who returned his gaze defiantly. Intolerable though Potter was, Snape chose not to pursue the matter. He would go directly to the source.

That evening, he watched as she entered the Great Hall, avoiding eye contact once more. He viewed carefully her exchanges with Harry and Ron, noticed every smile and laugh. She was animated and more carefree than she had seemed in the previous days. Though he couldn't hear what was being said, he could tell that Harry was teasing Ron about something, causing Hermione to laugh. Ron reddened, as he had in the classroom, and mumbled something, as Hermione threw her head back and laughed, exposing her pale throat. Snape's eyes lingered on the white skin, and it didn't escape his attention that Ron's eyes remained there as well. As she continued her conversation with Harry and Ron, his gut clenched. Was he honestly jealous? Of Potter and Weasley, no less?

At that moment, Professor Flitwick attempted to draw Snape into a conversation about the rapidly cooling autumn weather, and Snape turned his gaze away from Hermione for a moment. But even as he turned his head, he felt a tingling begin in his cheeks and he was certain she was looking at him. Turning his head quickly, his eyes caught hers, just as she turned away from him.

Her reaction was clear and his sense of victory was immediate. For, it was only a matter of seconds before her cheeks flushed a deep crimson and she turned her eyes to her fingers, twisting in her lap. She repeatedly picked up her silverware and glass, returning them to the table quickly. Her discomfiture, caused by merely meeting his eyes for a split second, was obvious and provided Snape with a deep sense of satisfaction. She had done nothing but cause him agitation all week. It felt liberating to do the same to her.

After several moments, however, it appeared that she had had enough; she rose from the table and walked with great deliberation toward the entrance hall. Harry and Ron, though clearly surprised by her sudden departure, did not follow her. Snape excused himself from the staff table and wove his way through the Great Hall, determined to catch her alone in the entrance hall, before she made her way back to the Gryffindor Common Room.

As he reached the door of the Great Hall, he scanned the entrance hall quickly, locating her retreating figure near the stairwell that led to, as he expected, the Gryffindor Tower. As he watched her head towards the steps, for a moment, he was unable to raise his voice to stop her. A terror at having to speak to her paralyzed him, and he felt his opportunity to speak to her on her own slip through his fingers. Finally, however, he pulled himself together and took a deep breath. He was the professor and she was the student. She was to do what she was told. And would be the one to tell her.

"Miss Granger." He forced himself to leave the safety of the Great Hall doorway and made his way toward her. Though she had stopped walking, she continued to stare at the stairwell ahead of her, as though hoping she could still make a break for it.

He came upon her, standing only feet away, and still she did not turn to face him. His heart was pounding and he felt out of breath. He hadn't spoken to her in a week. The feelings of shame he had been trying to repress for days were raging and a part of him wanted to throw himself upon her feet and beg for her forgiveness. But the fact that she had yet to turn to face him irked him and stopped him from doing anything foolish.

"Miss Granger, I am speaking to you," he commanded, and she turned slowly, keeping her eyes on his feet. As she stood there, he swept his eyes up and down her body, and without warning, though she was in full uniform, with her robe firmly fastened, he saw nothing but her naked body in all its glory. A pang of longing pulled at his groin and he felt an almost irrepressible desire to throw her against the wall and take her, with all of the school present only yards away.

Forcing his eyes to her face, her head snapped up a moment later and their gazes locked. Steeling himself, he remembered that he was her professor and his job was to teach her.

"Miss Granger, you have missed two Potions lessons this week. This is a very serious offense and warrants detention. Explain yourself," he ordered, in as authoritative a tone as he could summon. She said nothing.

Anger began to creep into his words as he stated, "You will attend Potions lessons from now on, or I shall be forced to notify your Head of House, as well as the Headmaster, of your actions."

Finally, at his words, she reacted, though not in the way he had anticipated. Fire shot out of her eyes and she seemed to grow several inches as her anger increased to match his. Her reaction caught him unawares; he had expected her to cower before him.

"Yes, _Professor_," she hissed at him, "Perhaps you should involve Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore in this situation. I would welcome their opinion as to your behavior, as well." She was glaring at him with contempt and the rage that Snape had attempted to contain until that point was let loose.

For a week, he had berated himself for his atrocious behavior and he wallowed in needless anxiety. He had felt nothing but disgust and shame for his actions, and wanted nothing more than to apologize for what he had done, to take it all back. But it wasn't until that moment that he realized her part in what had occurred.

His rage was incensed as he recalled her binding him to this chair. _Imprisoning_ him. How could he possibly be blamed for this? She had begged him for punishment while she punished him herself. She had hid beneath his desk and _tortured_ him as another student was present. She had gone out of her way to humiliate him. She not only asked for his treatment, but demanded it.

And now, to act as though everything was his fault, as though he were entirely to blame, when all he wanted was to return to normal? He wanted nothing more than to be her teacher and for her to be his student, while she appeared to want to punish him unnecessarily. He was furious. She may have challenged his authority as a partner, but she would challenge his authority as a teacher.

The guilt he had felt was pressed deep within him as his wrath surfaced. His eyes still focused on hers, he took a step forward, closing the small distance between them. Her breathing was heavy, and he could feel her breath on his cheek as she refused to avert her gaze. But as he continued to stare her down, saying nothing, he felt her break, and she cowed to him, ever so slightly. Though she didn't look away, he knew she would say nothing. She was angry and defeated and his victory was sweet. The urge to press himself against her and crush his lips to hers overtook him, but he fought the urge. Finally, she broke their gaze and headed toward the stairway.

Before she began to ascend the steps, he took one last opportunity to relish in his victory. "You will report to lessons on Monday, Miss Granger. Or else." She paused with her foot on the bottom step but did not turn around. After a second, she continued up the steps, not looking back.

Flush with his dominating success, he returned to him chambers for the evening. But he felt an odd sense of energy and buoyancy to which he was unaccustomed, and he found it difficult to contain himself. He attempted to work but found it nearly impossible to focus on the essays and potions. Finally, he found respite in sitting before his fire and gazing into the flames. As he reclined before the glowing hearth, fantasy after fantasy floated before his eyes, each more degrading than the last. Each time, Hermione came to him, eyes blazing, stance defiant. And each time, he broke her, claiming triumph in their war of wills. Fervently, he stroked his rock-hard dick and imagined fucking her in any number of ways – bent over his desk, against the blackboard, in a closet…. His fantasies rapidly grew more absurd and elaborate, as he stroked within her upon a library table, in the stands at the Quidditch pitch, against a tree by the lake. And in each and every fantasy, his domination and control was absolute as she begged him for release. Finally, after what seemed like the creation of hundreds of new fantasies, he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

Several hours passed as he slept in his dark, cavernous bedchamber. The fantasies of hours before wound their way through his dreams and he became strongly aroused as he felt a hand slide into his underwear and gently slip around his semi-hard cock. It was a long moment before he came to the realization that he was not dreaming this feeling. Straining his eyes in the darkened chamber, he could just make out her silhouette, framed against the last glowing embers of the hearth. She sat up beside him in only a thin nightgown, her hand slowly and probingly massaging him.

He quickly tried to sit up, ready to throw her upon the bed and drive into her, but she placed a palm upon his chest and pressed him softly against the pillow. Strangely, his desire to plunder her dissipated and he allowed her to remove his underwear and then slide a leg across his torso and straddle him. He could feel between her legs that she was not wearing panties and her hot wetness seeped against his stomach. She slid both hands up over his chest and leaned down until her face hovered just above his. So close, he could just make out her features. She inclined her head another inch and their lips met. Before long, her lips parted and he slid his tongue in to join hers. He slid his hands up her legs, massaging her thighs as he went. In one swift motion, he pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it to the floor.

She leaned down once more and he felt her nipples, hard from arousal and the cold dungeon air, rest upon his naked chest. Little by little, as his tongue continued to probe her soft mouth, she slid down his stomach, pushing his erection lower and lower. Finally, she slipped her hand down and guided the head of his cock to the entrance of her pussy. Nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck, she lowered her hips slowly, sighing as she took him within her. When he was finally securely within her, she settled herself upon his hips and whispered into his ear, "Severus."

The sound of his name on her lips was novel and thrilling. He moaned and sought her mouth once more as she raised her pelvis and sank upon him. Lifting her head from his, she braced her hands on his shoulders and they worked themselves into a regular rhythm as she rode him. As each minute passed, the tempo increased, and she rode him harder and harder, as though trying to take him even deeper within herself. Her moans escalated with each thrust and he began to grunt each time she sank upon him. He could feel his release building but felt certain that there was no need to restrain himself; she would come in time.

And he was right. Crying out and screwing her eyes closed, she threw her head back in ecstasy, riding the waves of her orgasm while he thrust his pelvis against hers. His own orgasm was imminent. Only a few more thrusts and he would be there, pumping into her….Wanting her close, he reached up to pull her close to him. He was at the precipice, blackness spreading around the edges of his vision. He fingers reached for her shoulders but they weren't there. His groin convulsed and he desperately sought in the dark for her face but there was nothing but air before him. Suddenly confused and a bit frightened, his orgasm arrived, spewing his come into the air and the blackness obliterated his sight completely.

He remained immobile for several moments as his heartbeat became regular and his breathing slowed. Sitting up, he saw he was alone. A desolate, lonely feeling of emptiness crept into his chest and he lay back down to his pillow. Fighting a surprisingly strong urge to cry, he buried his face in his pillow and fell back to sleep, the sound of his name on her lips repeating in his head.

The following morning, Snape was tired and disoriented by his dream. It had felt so real. But even more discomfiting was the nature of the dream itself, for it so diametrically opposed his fantasies. He did his best to shelve the dream and not think of it as the day progressed.

For the next several days, his path rarely crossed that of Hermione. In the Great Hall, he was careful to keep his eyes on his plate while she seemed content to stare at hers. Nevertheless, Monday was approaching quickly.

When classtime finally arrived on Monday morning, Snape sat pensively at his desk, wondering if she would appear. Students began to file through the door and he viewed them anxiously. As each student crossed the threshold, his heart thudded harder, until the door closed behind the last student. Her seat was still empty. Before he had a chance to become angry, however, the door swung open once more and she strode across the room to take her seat. Her face was set with determination and each movement was purposeful and deliberate. She did not look at him.

Snape took a calming breath and began class. But though he knew he should treat her as a student and put everything behind him, he was having trouble concentrating. She was, amazingly, working as though nothing had happened. He did his best to act normal and supervise the work of the students.

The class was progressing and Snape had calmed significantly. He began to feel a bit more assertive, and realized that it would be possible to return to normal and resume his authoritative position as professor. He had made a mistake but he could control himself. He would. As he ruminated on these thoughts, his attention was drawn to Hermione's table, where she was diligently working on her potion. Even as she worked, however, her eyes slid sideways along to the table to where Harry Potter was mixing ingredients.

Both Snape and Hermione could see plainly that Harry was making a hopeless mess of his ingredients, and if he didn't correct his course now, his potion would be a disaster. But even as Snape felt a small amount of satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd be able to give Harry a failing grade for his assignment, he noticed Hermione whispering to Harry, no doubt correcting his mistake. Indeed, Harry immediately changed his technique, likely salvaging his potion. He murmured something back to Hermione, causing her to blush and laugh quietly under her breath. The two returned to their work, but Hermione continued to look somewhat pleased with herself.

Had the exchange occurred between any two other students, Snape would have immediately blasted them for cheating and doled out failing grades, detentions, or both. But viewing such an exchange between students had never triggered such pain and jealousy before. What exactly was there between Hermione and Potter? Or Hermione and Weasley, for that matter? He hadn't missed the way Ron looked at her in the Great Hall the week before. It had never occurred to him before, but what if she dating one of them?

Unwelcome thoughts flitted into his mind; images of Hermione alternately holding Harry's hand, stroking Ron's hair, kissing Harry. Had she ever done that? It wasn't an unreasonable thought. She spent all her time with them. And she was eighteen years old…not exactly young for most girls to start exploring. In fact, many had done a great deal more by the age of eighteen…

An anvil dropped into his stomach as he imagined the possibility that she had slept with either of them. It wasn't just possible, it was probable. Of course, it made perfect sense. And now, she wanted nothing to do with him because she wanted someone else. Against his will, he recalled the first day he saw Lily walk down the hallway holding Potter's hand. How could this happen again? How could he lose someone else to a Potter? He felt dizzy and ill. Swallowing hard, he forced himself not to become sick before the entire classroom.

In his shocked state, he hardly realized that the class had ended. Students filed up before him to hand in their flacons of potion. By the time she reached him, he was utterly unprepared to see her.

She reached out her hand and placed the stoppered bottle on his palm. As their fingers touched, he felt electricity run up his arm and he wasn't able to look away from her. Her eyes met his and he felt as though his mind and heart exploded with emotion. The jealousy of just moments before softened slightly, tempered by the despair and guilt of the previous weeks. Mixed with everything was, surprisingly, a tenderness that he didn't know he felt for her. As for Hermione, though she had seemed flustered and nervous when she first presented herself before him, she now seemed confused and sad. Seeing the look on her face, which resembled pity, brought him to his senses and he closed himself off. He removed the flacon from her hand and turned away, mentally berating himself for letting his guard down.

Hermione turned from him and packed up her bag. He busied himself at his desk, noting that she dawdled but not giving her any opportunity to speak with him. Finally, she followed the last students out of the room and he breathed a sigh of relief.

What had just happened? The feelings that had been stirred up were wholly unexpected. But even as he thought of how unprepared he had been for this encounter, his mind returned to the dream of the week before. Maybe this wasn't entirely a surprise. Perhaps….perhaps there was something more? Maybe he wanted more than simply to dominate her. Maybe he needed more than to show he was more powerful than she. Laughing to himself derisively, he realized that, even if he did feel something more, she would have to feel the same way for it to mean anything. And that couldn't possibly be true.

He sat at his desk for another moment, his mind wandering over his history with her. Was it possible? Could their relationship mean something more to her? He had to know. He grabbed a bit of parchment and a quill, holding the nib above the paper for a full minute. What did he want to write? He couldn't even begin to think of something that wasn't laughable. Finally, he came to the decision to make a simple request. It wasn't possible to write what he needed to say on paper; he needed her before him. And so he scrawled quickly, _Midnight_.

Stepping into the hallway of the dungeon, he walked briskly along the corridor until he came upon a group of chattering third-years. Pulling one aside roughly, he handed the note to the terrified student and demanded that he deliver it to Hermione in the Great Hall. The student nodded, speechless, and took off to complete his task.

Snape spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous distress. It struck him that until recently, he had not been accustomed to the feeling of nervousness. He wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Still, he tried not to be optimistic as he thought about the coming evening. He was well aware that optimism only led to disappointment. To pass the time, he, once again, graded papers and read.

At 11:30, his heart began to race and he had trouble sitting still. At 11:45, he was pacing the classroom, wondering if she wouldn't come early. By 11:55, he was sitting at his desk, his eyes trained on the door. He did not move from that position as the clock passed 12:00 and crept toward 12:30. Finally, at 1:00, when he was certain she would not come, he rose from his desk, his face stony, to pace the room once more.

He couldn't believe she did not come to him. Even if she did not feel anything for him, at the very least, she could come and tell him. As he paced, his disappointment and sadness gave way to anger, which quickly escalated to fury. How dare she disobey him? The gall, the presumption, to think that she didn't have to take instruction from him. Arriving back at his desk, he swept everything from it in anger, watching as the bottles and jars shattered upon the stone floor. Turning from the mess, he slammed his fist into the blackboard twice. His anger continued to get the better of him as he lifted his chair and threw it across the room, smashing it against a bookcase. His chest heaved as he stood in the midst of his destruction. Looking at the mess, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving it behind him.

When he returned to his classroom on Tuesday morning, the destruction had been magically restored, likely by the house elves. Snape felt a small amount of shame at letting his rage take control, but his anger at Hermione had not dissipated.

Later that day, as he graded the potions submitted by the N.E.W.T. students the day before, he came across Hermione's flacon and he felt a fresh surge of fury. Without even unstoppering it, he knew that it was perfect. Despite her perfect work, however, he could not bring himself to give her the grade she deserved. Feeling a vicious satisfaction, he scrawled a "P" across her grade parchment. The satisfaction only magnified by the crestfallen look on her face when she received the grade the following morning.

Knowing her as he did, he should not have been surprised at her renewed determination after she received her failing grade. She worked diligently throughout the period and he was sure, without even looking, that her potion would, again, be perfect. At the end of the period, she jammed the bottle into his hand without a word or a glance, and flounced from the room.

As the door closed behind the last student, he once more scribbled a note to her, reading, _Midnight. Do not disobey me._ He pressed the note into the hand of another terrified student and waited for midnight. Though he had not truly expected her to appear this time, he felt he had to give it one last try. When she did not show, however, he told himself it was time to let go of the fantasy and return to sanity. With a last surge of pleasure, however, he inscribed a bright red "D" on her grade sheet.

When Hermione arrived at the next class to her second failing grade in a row, he did not fail to note her displeasure. However, even with his unhappiness at the turn their relationship had taken, he knew it was time to reassert himself as a professor, and a professor only. To do so, it would be necessary to reassert his authority, not in any physical way, but simply in the teacher-student sense. A detention was in order.

By the end of the lesson, Hermione was obviously fuming. However, Snape was determined to put things right and return their interactions to a more acceptable level. As she shoved her belongings into her bag, he worked up the resolve to address her normally and move towards the status quo.

"Miss Granger, you have now failed two assignments in a row. Between your shoddy classwork and your previous absences, I am forced to conclude that you are not making a sincere effort in this class. Perhaps a detention will help to set you in the right direction." He kept his eyes on his work, not looking her in the eye. She said nothing in response.

He continued, "You will report here at eight o'clock this evening to serve your detention." Though, again, she did not respond, he was certain she heard him, and he was even more certain that she understood his intentions. Thus, he was unsurprised when she appeared in the potions classroom doorway at precisely 8:00 that evening.

"Ah, Miss Granger, I am glad to see you have made the sensible decision not to ignore your detention. Follow me," he said, in a short snipped tone, making every effort to sound as a professor should when speaking to a student. He led her to the ingredient storeroom across from the classroom door and opened it.

"Though I usually assign students research projects in the library for detention, I do not believe I am incorrect in my assumption that you would rather enjoy such a punishment." He winced slightly at his unintentional use of the word "punishment" and pressed on.

"Therefore, you are to clean the storeroom from top to bottom. I shall be checking your progress both for order and cleanliness. When you have completed the task, you may return to your dormitory."

Hermione looked from the cupboard to him several times, seemingly uncomprehendingly. Eventually, however, her face registered mute indignation and she stamped into the room and slammed the heavy door behind her.

Snape returned to his desk, somewhat amused. Yes, her sullen reaction was precisely what he would expect from a student to whom he had just assigned an odious detention. He was quite pleased with himself. Though it had been difficult, more difficult than he had imagined, he had conquered his inability to control himself when around Hermione Granger. He had disciplined himself, and put her in her place in the process. He had put his monstrous appetite to rest and he was wholly satisfied.

At his desk, buried in sheaves of parchment and flacons of potion, the time passed quickly, and he almost forgot that she was in the storeroom. The heavy door muffled most sounds from inside and he had no idea what she might be up to. The though briefly crossed his mind that she could, perhaps, sabotage his potion ingredients or create even more disorder than was there to begin with, but he dismissed the possibility. She was not an irresponsible or reckless girl. At worst, she would simply fail at the assignment.

He had to admit that he had assigned her quite a job. The storeroom was in despicable condition, and absolutely filthy. He had put off cleaning and organizing it for quite some time. He couldn't imagine how she'd be able to make sense of the mess in there, but it amused him to think of her trying.

Hours passed before he remembered to check his watch. He jumped from his chair with a start, realizing that Hermione had been in the storeroom for nearly five hours. Striding over to the cupboard, he pulled the heavy door open and she turned in surprise, blinking at light. He entered the storeroom, gazing around at the shelves in wonder.

She had not blown off the assignment, as he might have anticipated. No, she clearly had taken it seriously and the reorganization was nearly complete. The jars and pots of ingredients were lined neatly on the many dozens of shelves and each one sparkled in the torchlight. He walked slowly from shelf to shelf, discovering the new homes of his beloved ingredients and admiring the skill and knowledge exhibited in the placement of each and every ingredient. She quite obviously knew the specific uses and commonality of each ingredient and had placed them on the shelves accordingly, creating a subtle system. He was captivated by the absolute order and scheme.

Finally, remembering that Hermione was still present, he exited the storeroom and returned to his desk to continue with his work. Though he tried to be nonchalant, he was aware that he had just displayed quite obviously to her how impressed he was with her work. Trying to return to his state of detached boredom, he dismissed her, saying, "That will be all, Miss Granger."

Though he had hoped she would leave the classroom, instead, she approached his desk, asking, "Well?"

"Well, what?" he responded, not looking up from his papers. "Oh, yes, the storeroom is acceptable," he said flatly, trying his best to pretend she was no longer there.

She had reached his desk and was standing close enough to him that he could smell her scent. Still, he continued to ignore her.

"My work is always better than acceptable, Professor," she said, taking another step closer to him. His eyes skipped from his papers to her and returned quickly to his desk. His brief stop, however, was enough for him to take in her state. She was disheveled, her hair curling wildly from her face, which bore smudges of grime and dirt. She looked hot and damp and utterly attractive. He felt the familiar stirrings of desire for her but suppressed them.

"I didn't deserve to fail those assignments and you know it," she challenged him, and he felt her eyes upon him. At this, Snape finally turned from his work, anger finally supplanting the weary peace he had felt when he believed he had conquered his demons just hours before.

"I have warned you before, Miss Granger, not to defy me. You must learn that your actions have consequences." Though he could feel his blood pulsing in his veins, he still clung to the shred of hope that she would give in and drop her argument. If she would simply walk away, he felt certain he could do the same.

Instead, she said, "And what about your actions, Professor?" resentment evident in her voice. Snape stood up quickly, standing only inches from her, but she continued, undeterred, "I do not have to answer to you."

It was as though a switch had been flipped inside him. All thought and reason flew out the window and every irrational fear and desire that had ever visited him in his obsession over Hermione returned. Of course she answered to him. There would be no one else, he would make certain of it. She belonged to him and no other.

And to prove his unspoken point, he lunged forward violently, catching her on each arm above the elbow. For a long moment, he felt so much anger directed toward her that he could think of no course of action to resolve it. Finally, however, his desire for her took control and he pulled her roughly to him, crashing his lips upon hers.

Despite his coarse manner, he could feel her body respond to his almost instantly, her mouth opening to accommodate his demanding tongue, her body pressing more firmly against his. Their kiss was hot and insistent, and he felt as though he could devour her. He would possess her completely.

But he didn't want only to possess her – he wanted her to _want_ to be possessed. And so, seeing an opportunity to take the upper hand and bring her solidly under his dominion, he pulled away.

She looked up at him in surprise and dismay and he answered her quizzical look by unfastening her robe and shirt and sliding his long, tapered fingers into her bra and over the globes of her breasts. Rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, he kissed her once again, this time slowly and less punishingly.

Snape continued to remove her clothing, dropping her robe, shirt, and bra into a pile on the floor beside them. Her tie he removed from around her neck and looped around his wrist. As he did so, she eyed the tie cautiously, but said nothing. Resuming their kiss, he pulled on her wrists until they were both on the floor beside his desk. With a smooth motion, he pressed his body on top of hers until he head rested on the floor and she was lying prone beneath him. She made a move to unfasten his robe, but Snape did not release his grip on her wrists.

Instead, as his tongue continued its exploration of her mouth, he lifted both of her wrists until her arms were stretched above her head. Sliding the tie off his wrist, he bound her wrists together with the red-and-gold striped fabric and secured the ends to the leg of the massive desk behind them. He returned his gaze to her face and felt a thrill of satisfaction at the mixed look of fear and desire that crossed her features as she realized that she was trapped. Her wand was yards away on a desk.

Goosebumps had appeared on her skin and he deliberately took a moment to drink in her naked torso with his eyes, causing her to shudder slightly in anticipation. Relishing her helplessness, he slid his hands down her arms, grazing under her arms and alongside her breasts as he went. Finally, his fingers found her skirt, which he removed with excruciating slowness, savoring each inch of thigh as it came into view. When her skirt passed her ankles, he removed each of her shoes, then each sock. Finally, he slipped his fingers into her panties and drew them off, fixing his eyes on hers as he did so.

Once she was completely naked, he took another moment to explore her body with his eyes. She had yet to make a sound, but was squirming slightly under his gaze and he knew she was becoming frustrated in her arousal.

Snape lifted himself above Hermione, bracing his arms on either side of her. With as much restraint as he could muster, he slowly lowered his still-clothed body, inch by inch, towards her, until his form rested upon her. The pressure of her body upon his fully-erect cock was immense, but he did his best to block out the sensations, focusing on her alone. It was difficult, however, as she wriggled beneath him, sending spasms of pleasure into his groin and up his body.

Returning his mouth to hers, he ran his tongue along her cheek until he reached her ear, and inserted it gently. His hands continued to explore her torso, as his tongue cut a meandering path down her throat. As he enjoyed the salty taste of her skin, biting the delicate flesh and causing her to sigh, he recalled the day in the Great Hall, when he had caught Weasley looking longingly at her as she laughed. The though spurred him on; he would make her forget all others.

His lips met her nipples and sucked on each lightly as she began to moan with pleasure at his attentions. His hands remained one step ahead of his mouth, as they trailed down her stomach and reached her hips. As his head moved lower and lower down her stomach, and his tongue slid into her navel, she cried aloud and spread her legs wide for him.

At the sight of her opened thighs, he felt a driving urge whip out his cock and plunge into her immediately. But he ignored his instincts, and continued his cautious progress down her body. Reaching her thighs, he pushed her legs down to the ground and held them in place with his elbows. Gently, almost tentatively, he placed his fingertips on her swollen lips and carefully pulled them apart, revealing her engorged clit.

Hermione had begun to cry and he smiled to himself at her state. Ever-so-slowly, his tongue snaked out of his mouth and allowed the tip to rest on the top of her clit. Hermione let loose a groan as his tongue made contact and the bottom half of her body convulsed violently. Her arms twisted in their fabric binding. Pleased at her reaction, he continued his journey, lapping at her clit and then plunging his tongue deep into her.

Her head rocked side to side as he worked, and she moaned incoherently. Eventually, her thrashing and bucking of her hips became too violent and he placed his elbows on the insides of her thighs and pinned her to the stone floor. When she was still, he lowered his head once more and redoubled his effort, swirling his tongue continually and bringing her closer and closer to climax.

It was evident that Hermione had lost all sense of comprehension and coherent thought and she writhed on the floor. Her orgasm was building, he knew. Just as he sensed she was about to come to a powerful, shuddering climax, he pulled his head away and stood up.

Her eyes flew open in a panic, but she was speechless. Without removing his gaze from hers, he began, deliberately, to undress. Carefully, he stripped off his robe and placed it neatly across the back of a chair. One by one, he then unbuttoned his shirt, untucking it and removing it as carefully as he had his robe. With cautious progress, he removed each article of clothing and placed it neatly aside, folding when necessary. Hermione's eyes did not leave his for an instant and he had to keep himself from smiling in amusement.

As he removed his underwear, he felt the cool dungeon air surround his cock and he shivered a little at the feeling. He was rock-hard, rising straight up from his groin and curving back to touch his stomach. Before lowering himself to the floor, he allowed himself another opportunity to gaze upon her naked form, stretched before him on the floor, her legs still open, her pussy dark and glistening. How he wanted her.

Finally, he lowered himself to the floor, once again bracing his arms and balancing his weight above her, the underside of his cock just brushing the small of her stomach. Their eyes still locked, he paused. At yet another delay, Hermione began to cry once more, arching her back to try and draw him within her. Snape remained still, however, his gaze never wavering. He had her where he wanted her and he would not lose in the final round.

"Tell me you want me."

She gasped at his words, but did not hesitate in responding, "I want you."

Again, her hips bucked towards him, but he was not finished.

"Tell me to fuck you," he commanded.

Instantly, she replied, "Fuck me," in a whisper, her eyes still on his.

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth as he ordered, "Beg me."

She had nearly no voice, but she immediately replied, "Oh, God, please, Professor, please do it now."

The effect of her words shot through him like a dart; he felt powerful. And so he gave into her request, lowering himself the final inch and thrusting within her fully. Hermione's mouth opened in surprise but she did not cry out. He gave no thought to slowing, but instead began an immediate, insistent rhythm of strokes into her waiting body.

She had been so close to coming before that he knew it would not be long before she actually reached her orgasm. And he was glad of it, because he would not be far behind. The control he felt was incomparable, and gave him a heady, dizzy sensation. His strokes became faster as he pumped in unison to her grinding hips. Hermione was moaning loudly and incoherently. With each thrust, he knew her body was forced roughly across the stone floor, and he pushed a little harder.

Finally, she was his, he knew she was his. She would want no other, it wasn't possible. But he needed to hear it from her. And so, as his cock drove repeatedly within her, he murmured into her ear, "You answer to me. You answer only to me. Do not forget that." Hermione groaned loudly, wrapping her legs tighter about him, and whispered, "Only you."

And with that, all was lost. Snape was aware of nothing but her body and the fact that she was his. He barely even noticed when she began to groan, her eyes slipping back in her head, as she was taken by her orgasm. At nearly the same moment, the agony of his own orgasm took hold of him and he thrust into her one last time. His come exploded from him forcefully and was buried deep in her belly as he jerked spasmodically over her body. As he regained his senses, he saw that she was lolling about on the floor, in a state of incomprehension and bliss.

His jerking body stilled, but only momentarily, as his hands began to shake uncontrollably. Once again, as with their first encounter, he suddenly viewed his actions with the harsh light of reality, without the film of lust. He had done it again. He was a monster.

As he climbed off her body, he released her from her bonds, and winced when he saw that her wrists were rubbed raw. He pulled his robe on with shaking fingers and turned to face the wall so that she could not see him. The anguish and guilt of the previous days descended upon him with force and he thought he might be ill once more. But as upset as he was over what he had done to her, he couldn't bear the shame in allowing her to see him in this state. And so he did the only thing he could think to do. He ordered her to leave.


	3. Chapter 3

At last, this is the third and final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has left such wonderful reviews! This last chapter wound up being longer than I anticipated, but there was a lot that I wanted to cover. To those who gave constructive criticism and advice, thank you...I tried to take it all into account. Please let me know what you think...enjoy!

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A grey, watery light was just beginning to spill over the grounds, erasing the darkness of the previous night. Snape sat on the shore of the lake, his knees tucked under his chin, his body shivering in the cold. For several hours, he had roamed the grounds surrounding the castle, allowing his thoughts to wander aimlessly, willing his shame to be blown away by the late-autumn winds. Eventually, the leaden heaviness of his thoughts and his guilt weighed too greatly upon him and he sank to his knees beside the lake.

For the second time, he had completely taken leave of his senses and engaged in unspeakable, monstrous behavior. The first time might have been forgivable if it had remained an isolated instance, a regrettable, one-time mistake. But to add a second offense to his growing list of sins served only to ratify the horrendous nature of previous actions.

But even as he hated himself for what he had done to Hermione, he knew that he could not have stopped himself. The fury and jealousy that had fueled him, the pain and lust and desire, were too overwhelming. The only salve for his burning soul was the power and freedom he found in his domination and subjugation of Hermione, and her voracious, lustful response. Entering her was like stepping into an inferno where all of his other thoughts were obliterated.

But afterwards...withdrawing from her was like waking from the most intense and brilliant of dreams to discover the hard, cold dreariness of reality. And such dreariness truly did define Snape's life. For eighteen years, he had toiled away his life, not daring to step outside the lines, but existing only inside the parameters he had established for himself. Existing, but not living. Within the prison he had created for himself, he observed little color; the world consisted of black, white, and innumerable shades of grey. And until Hermione had entered his existence, he hadn't missed the color. But now – now he yearned for it.

There had been a day, several weeks before, when something more had seemed possible. The first day she had returned to his class and had turned in her potion to him, when she had met his gaze for the first time in so many weeks…he had been unprepared to face her at that moment, and as he had looked upon her, colors had flickered in the corners of his mind, red and gold shades of warmth and security. But he had shown her too much and her look of pity was too much for him to withstand. In the end, he had shut her out.

With their second encounter, he had repressed any feelings of warmth or compassion for Hermione, seeking only the power of his authority over her as he both pleasured and punished her upon the classroom floor. But, at the moment of his highest dominion, as she came in a torrent of incomprehensible gratification and his own orgasm was triggered, once more, the tenderness for her returned. In a flash, his guilt had subsumed any pleasure he had derived from her debasement and his waves of ecstasy were replaced by tremors of despair.

It was unthinkable that she should have seen him in such a state, and he had ordered her from his presence in order to hide his shame. The look of shock and grief upon her face as he bellowed for her to get out had pierced his heart, but allowing her to believe his callous disregard for her feelings was preferable to demonstrating what he was coming to recognize as his true feelings.

Until that moment, he had allowed himself to believe that his desire for her, though pervasive and controlling, was a function of his libido alone. But now that he had come to recognize the truth, he was aware of how dangerous it was to continue. He could not and would not allow himself to feel for Hermione what he had never truly felt for another woman. To invite her to know him in that way would be to hand her the greatest weapon, greater than any control she could gain through sex alone. Her rejection of him would be the key to his destruction. And so he would never allow her to reject him in that way.

Though the sky remained leaden and heavy, Snape knew the sun had finally risen above the horizon. The clouds were thick and hinted at the promise of snow. Winter would arrive soon, and he shivered at the thought of an eternity of grey, colorless days before him. But he had made his choice to live such a drab existence long ago, and he would not allow the temptation of Hermione Granger to lead him astray of his chosen path. Resignedly, he rose from the lake's edge and tread ponderously back to the castle, his heart heavy in his chest.

From that day forward, Snape did his best to return to his life as it had been the previous year. His efforts were not lost on Hermione, who appeared to observe him with a mixture of anxious expectation and disappointment. More than once, he found her eyes upon him in the Great Hall, but he turned away, careful not to meet her gaze. As usual, she produced an excellent potion in class, and he was tempted to provide her with a failing grade, if only to provide an excuse to assign her detention once again. But his logical self won out, and he awarded her an "E." He did not miss her crushed look in class the following morning.

Weeks passed, and he continued to treat her as he treated the rest of his students. Gradually, she appeared to accept the return to normalcy in their relationship. Her grades remained high and she never missed class or skipped meals in the Great Hall. When she turned in her potions or essays, Snape kept his eyes on his desk, and Hermione did not linger before him. Their hands did not meet.

But though Hermione seemed to be able to walk away from their association with relative ease, and though Snape was scrupulously careful not to ignite another encounter between them, his desire for her did not diminish. In fact, as the weeks went by, he found that his attraction for her grew ever stronger, and feelings of attachment continued to develop, despite his determination to feel nothing for her.

His only outlet for his longing remained his passion-fueled fantasies, to which he submitted himself several times daily. While in the shower, he imagined her nubile body slipping up against him, as her soapy hands explored the private planes and crevices of his body. While in bed, he could feel her hips beneath his hands as guided his member into her. In the Great Hall, he pictured her form spread before him upon the table, as he climbed astride her and took her under the enchanted ceiling.

These fantasies continued for weeks, becoming more elaborate and desperate. But his outward actions toward her did not change. And all the while, each day brought him one day closer to her graduation and departure from Hogwarts; each night closer to an existence devoid of her presence.

Winter descended upon the castle with a frenzy of snow and howling winds, announcing the coming Christmas holiday in no uncertain terms. Snape surreptitiously surveyed the roster of students remaining at Hogwarts over the holidays, but her name never appeared on it. Of course, she would go home to her parents. Or perhaps she would join the Weasleys at the Burrow. The monster of jealousy roared within his stomach as he imagined her spending Christmas with Weasley and, more likely than not, Potter.

A few days before the Hogwarts Express departed for London, Snape found himself spying on her with Potter and Weasley through the stacks in the library. To be fair, he hadn't intended to spy…he had gone to the library in search of a book and had chanced upon the trio accidentally. But once he had spied them, it became impossible to tear himself away from her presence. Ducking behind a nearby stack, he viewed their interaction carefully, agonizing over every glance, every touch she directed toward the two boys.

The three appeared to be working on some essay or another. But, as he would have predicted, Hermione was much more interested in working than were Potter and Weasley. Periodically, she would scold the pair for not concentrating and then return to her own parchment. After a time, he heard Weasley whine to her that he needed help. Snape snorted to himself; needed her to do the work for him was more like it, the dolt. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled the parchment toward her, continuing to scold him over his poor efforts. But even as she berated him, she made corrections to his parchment, and Weasley looked on gratefully.

After a time, Hermione shoved the parchment back towards Weasley with a huff, saying, "Honestly, Ron, if you're not even going to make an effort, that's the last time I edit one of your essays. How are you ever going to learn anything?"

But Snape did not miss blush on her cheeks or the small smile playing at the corner of Hermione's mouth as she returned to her own parchment.

Snape retreated farther back into the stacks, his chest burning with jealousy and fury. The edges of his vision were becoming blurred and he wasn't sure where he was anymore. He had resigned himself to the fact that he could not have Hermione. But he had not contemplated that someone else might have her in return.

As the blood pumped through his veins, his anger became mingled with arousal. For not the first time that day, his erection demanded his attention and for a moment, he considered leaving the library to take refuge in his bedchamber. He edged his way back up towards the front of the stack once more, until her profile came into view. From his current vantage point, Potter and the wretched Weasley were no longer visible and he could almost imagine she was sitting at the table alone. In an instant, he left the realm of reality.

Snape came upon her, now alone at the table. Before she had even lifted her head from her essay, he had her arm in his grip and had dragged her from her chair. Startled, she gaped at him with her mouth open and eyes wide as he threw her up against the stack. Pressing his body 

against her, his mouth covered hers, stopping any question or argument she may have considered making. He felt her soften against him and her arms encircled his neck.

Snape slipped back into consciousness for a moment, finding his eyes still upon her serious profile and his hand sliding down to his fly. For a minute or two, he allowed his hand to stroke his bulge gently through his pants, wanting desperately to pull himself off right then and there. His reason and sanity caused a moment's hesitation and then his demanding arousal won out; urgently but silently, he ripped open his fly and wrapped his hand around his cock, choking back a strangled sigh. His eyes still on her face, he settled into an immediate rhythm, until blackness once more overtook him.

She was pressing her body against him, wrapping her legs around him, moaning softly into his ear. He could take no more. As quickly as possible, he ripped open their robes, aching to sink into her. Her legs still wrapped around him, he carried her back to the library table and dropped her atop her books and parchment. Wasting no time, he climbed atop the table, straddled her, and thrust powerfully into her waiting body.

Her cry roused him from his reverie once more, and found her profile lifted toward someone he could not see. She was trying not to laugh. The light in her eyes sparkled and he bit back a groan as he continued his assault on his cock. He yearned to cross the small space between them and ravish her upon the table. Without such an option available to him, he returned to his fantasy.

He was plunging into her repeatedly and with abandon, neither one of them knowing or caring whether anyone else was in the library. They existed only in that moment, only for each other. She was crying out regularly now, her eyes shut tight and her hands gripping his shoulders. He pumped his organ in and out with determination, excruciatingly close to orgasm, but at the same time, wanting to be within her forever. He buried his face into her neck as he she began to shudder beneath him and he finally gave in to his agonizing pleasure.

With a shock, he was rushed back to the present, as the waves of his orgasm came upon him. He kept his eyes trained upon her face and allowed himself one small groan as he came into his hand. But even as he came, his loneliness and longing for her overcame him. Even just feet from him, she was too far away.

Snape returned to his bedchamber, where the enormity of what he had just done forced him off his feet. Sitting before his fire, he marveled at his own stupidity and dumb luck. How he had not been caught was beyond him; there were most certainly other students in the library that could have come upon him at any time and Madame Pince missed nothing within her precious stacks. But even more troubling was his extreme inability to control himself. It had been weeks since his last interaction with Hermione and he had hoped that his desire for her would diminish with time. That did not appear to be the case.

Snape was at his wit's end. Controlling himself did not seem to be an option any longer. God help him, he wanted her. He could think of no solution to his problem.

He slept uneasily that night, as Hermione wound her way through his dreams. The next morning, as he trudged toward his classroom, he groaned inwardly at the thought of her being in his class that day. He was terrified that her presence would provoke the same response from him that he had demonstrated in the library. But even as he worried, he also eagerly anticipated her presence, despite the fact that she no longer looked his way with mingled desire and trepidation.

Class began and he was careful to keep his attention away from her, as always. The students brewed their potions as he kept a watchful eye over the room from his desk. His familiar stirrings of arousal were present in his groin, but he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, determined to suppress his desire. After a time, his heart rate slowed and he felt secure enough to walk about the room, examining the contents of cauldrons.

His walking examination was both his most eagerly anticipated and his most dreaded activity while teaching his N.E.W.T.-level students, as it provided him with a valid excuse to interact with Hermione. But for the past month, he had been careful to spend exactly the same amount of time with each student, and gave her the same amount of attention that he bestowed upon his other students. He was determined not to deviate from his standard practice.

He began at the back of the room, slowly making his way toward her desk near the front. He peered into each cauldron without really seeing, occasionally picking up on glaring errors by the students and berating them until they cowered before him and nervously made corrections. But even as he tortured his students, his mind was not on his work, because her desk continued to come closer and closer. With each step, he felt his heart pound harder and the butterflies in his stomach fluttered madly. A sweat broke out on his brow and he fought to keep his concentration on the here-and-now. By the time he was two students away, he began to become aroused once more; as always, he was grateful that his layers of clothing disguised the majority of his embarrassment. Still, he was determined to see his commitment through.

She was next. Blood rushed to his head and he could hear nothing but his pounding heart. His mouth was dry and tongue felt too large. He stepped closer to her, noting that she had not lifted her head to see him; she did not acknowledge his presence in any way. Perhaps she was over him. The possibility disturbed him and he paused a moment, unable to move forward. But then his attention was caught by her scent that wafted from her almost imperceptibly. His arousal reinforced, he took another step forward and glanced down into her cauldron. Not noticing the contents, he allowed his eyes to fall shut as he breathed her in, permitting her to surround his senses. He was overwhelmed.

The time he would normally allot to spend near her had passed and it was time for him to move on. But she had not yet acknowledged him and he couldn't bring himself to step away. Instead, swallowing hard, he took another tiny step forward, until he could feel her side pressing gently against his swollen erection. He just barely suppressed a groan at the pressure. At the contact, her head shot up, but she did not turn to face him. He could see plainly, however, that her cheeks had reddened and her chest was rising and falling quickly. A wave of relief washed over him – she still wanted him.

He would have to walk away from her soon, as he had already spent too much time with her already. This was by no means over, however. For a moment, he attempted to console himself that he could send for her after class and they could find a way to be alone together. But the idea of even the briefest of separations seemed agonizing. He wanted her immediately and the fact that he could tell she felt the same way made the need all that more pressing. And so, in an instant, he made up his mind. Leaning down ever so slightly as he brushed past her, he whispered lightly into her ear, "Storeroom. Now."

He was already moving back towards his desk the instant the words left his mouth, but he did not miss the shiver that ran up her spine at his words. He smiled to himself at her reaction, relishing his obvious continuing power over her. He had no doubt that she would comply with his command.

Settling himself back at his desk, though his need for her was as urgent as ever, he felt more in control and his breathing slowed a bit. He watched her carefully for a few moments, wondering amusedly how she would manage to get to the storeroom. Tentatively, she raised her hand and their eyes locked together.

"Miss Granger?" he acknowledged, careful to give his voice its usual annoyed tone. Hermione shifted slightly in her seat and after a pause, asked in a voice barely above a whisper, "May I be excused to the lavatory, sir?"

Snape kept his gaze trained on her and, for an instant, toyed with the idea of denying her request, just to see her reaction. He very nearly smiled at the idea, but a surge of pressure within his groin made up his mind for him.

"You may," he finally responded, his gaze still leveled upon her. Still slightly breathless, Hermione rose from the table and made her way through the desks toward the classroom door. No one paid her any mind, including Weasley and Potter, who were each desperately trying to salvage hopelessly pathetic potions in their respective cauldrons.

Hermione edged her way around the back of the room toward the storeroom, careful not to be noticed. Once she was stowed safely inside, he felt a thrill of pleasure race up his spine, knowing she was waiting there for him, at his command. For a leisurely minute, he smirked at his desk, knowing she was likely in agony within the cupboard, terrified of being discovered.

Finally, his eagerness got the best of him, and he rose without a word to his students and headed for the cupboard. As it was not unusual for him to visit the storeroom during class time, he had no fear that anyone would find his action unusual. All the same, he couldn't exactly claim that what he was about to do was safe or smart. But, for exactly those reasons, it was also electrifying.

He entered the storeroom and quickly shut the door behind him, extinguishing almost all light. Still, the cupboard was small and it wasn't difficult to locate her. Instantly, he was upon her, pressing her against the wall and allowing the exquisite pressure of her body to flood each of his nerve endings. He had wanted this for so long. With all the pent-up fire of a month's fantasies 

and lonely nights, he kissed her, his tongue invading her mouth and claiming it as his own. But when she moaned into his mouth, he pinched her hard, and pulled back.

"Not a sound," he threatened her. Though the storeroom was thick-walled, he knew he couldn't rely on it to stop all noises from reaching the ears of the students on the other side. In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he could easily set a silencing spell of some kind to solve the dilemma. But as quickly as he thought of it, he dismissed it – forcing Hermione to keep silent even as he did everything he could to make her scream was so much more appealing.

With his warning issued, the two began tearing open their clothes, she seemingly as eager to reunite as he. Before they had managed to open much more than their robes, however, his mouth founds hers once more, and the kiss seemed to sear into him, spreading heat throughout his body and making every extremity tingle in anticipation. He could stand it no longer. Within a matter of seconds, he tugged down her panties, pulled her leg around him and thrust into her.

It was as good as he had remembered and even better, all at the same time. The feel of her surrounding him like a velvet glove nearly caused him to come instantly. But he regained control of his senses quickly and sought to establish a steady rhythm.

Hermione was obviously struggling not to make a sound and her effort spurred him on. Standing upright, he knew that, with each thrust, he was making contact with the sensitive inner wall of her pussy, causing her to spasm slightly with each touch. They didn't have much time and he needed her to come as quickly as possible.

If their prior encounters had provided him with any knowledge, it was that Hermione responded to rough treatment. And so he pressed her harder and harder against the wall, not bothering to take care for her head against the stone wall. Each time he pumped into her, she pressed back with her pelvis, tightening her grip on his cock with her slippery walls. His rhythm picked up and soon he was stroking into her with abandon.

Finally, he pushed her to the edge and her shuddering climax arrived as she sunk her teeth into his neck and dug her nails into his still-clad shoulders. The pain of her assault brought him to the brink as well, and Snape let go, feeling himself uncoil and release into her violently.

The moment he had finished, he felt his compunction set in. From what he could see in the dim light, Hermione was standing against the wall, her eyes still closed and her mouth slack. He could hardly order her from the room at that moment, especially not when he had entered it last. But he could not stop the waves of punishing remorse that were flooding over him, threatening to overtake him. It was as though each orgasm ripped open his soul and left him unable to repair it. If he did not get away soon, he would lose control in front of her.

Snape closed his trousers, adjusted his robe, and exited the storeroom, without sparing Hermione a backward glance. Though he knew his actions probably shocked and hurt her, causing her pain was much preferable to allowing her to view his own. The students in the classroom barely noticed him as he strode across the room and right through the classroom door. He flew down a 

maze of hallways until he was safely out of sight. There, he slid down against the wall until he was nothing but a quivering mass on the floor.

His trembling continued for a time and tears burned at the back of his eyes. But he did not allow himself to cry. Anger and guilt once more coursed through him. He knew, truly, that this was not what he wanted, for himself or for Hermione. But he also knew just as certainly, that what he truly wanted he could not have. And if the past month had demonstrated anything to him, it was that he simply did not have the discipline to stay away from her. And so if that meant that he would give in to his darker side, and allow himself to demand pleasure from her in the most demeaning ways, without attachment, then he would do so.

As Snape huddled on the hallway floor, he allowed himself to go back over his history with Hermione, recalling her challenge to him in the classroom all those months before. He remembered her tying him to his chair and allowed his anger at her to return. He could hear her stating to him defiantly, "I do not have to answer to you." He pictured her smiling shyly at Potter and saw Weasley starting longingly at her exposed throat. And with those thoughts, he pushed to the back of his mind any soft or affectionate feelings he ever might have felt for her and resolved to finish what she had started. This was not about feelings or emotions or, God forbid, _love_, this was about possession and control. With his mind resolutely set, Snape gathered himself together and returned to his classroom.

Class had ended already and the students had cleaned up and departed in his absence, including Hermione. He knew she would likely be found in the Great Hall, however. For a moment, he considered the fact that the following day began the first day of the Christmas term and that Hermione was scheduled to depart on the Hogwarts Express in the morning. Sensing an opportunity to exert himself, he grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, scribbling, _Tomorrow. Midnight. My office._ Finding a first-year in the hallway, he sent the sealed note off to her with a sigh of satisfaction. He had no doubt she would stay.

Midnight the following evening found him sitting calmly before his desk in his office. He had not bothered to seek Hermione out that day, or to ensure that she had remained behind as the other students boarded the train for home. She would do as he ordered.

Sure enough, at midnight precisely, a soft rapping sounded on his office door. For the first time, he felt well and truly in control of his emotions. He took a deep breath of smug satisfaction and then called out, "Enter."

The door opened cautiously and Hermione stepped tentatively inside, looking unsure of herself. It occurred to him that she may never have been in his office before. It certainly wasn't the most welcoming of places, with its damp, chilly air, drab furnishings, and varied jars of floating specimens. Her discomfort caused a stab of pleasure in his gut.

She continued to stand uncertainly near the door, her hands twisted before her, taking in her surroundings. Rather than her school uniform and robe, she was dressed for bed, in a nightgown covered by a dressing robe. She was barefoot and her toes curled sensitively on the cold, rough stone. Eventually, however, she directed her gaze toward his desk, where he sat, observing her. 

As their eyes connected, he recognized the flush of arousal that lit her cheeks and throat. He allowed himself the pleasure of continuing their glance for a minute or two, reminded of the initial stolen glances during class. His cock began to stiffen beneath his robe.

"Remove your clothing, Miss Granger," said Snape, his eyes not leaving her face. Hermione hesitated for only the briefest of moments before untying her robe and slipping it over her shoulders. She hesitated once more, however, after dropping the robe to the floor.

"All of your clothing," he commanded, keeping his voice low but sharp. She closed her eyes briefly and then pulled the nightgown over her head in a single movement. As it dropped to the floor on top of her robe, he took in her form, allowing his eyes to sweep across her skin, watching as the goosebumps broke out across her body and her nipples hardened in the chilly air. Her eyes flicked about the room, pausing once on his face, then on the jars of indiscernible contents next to her. He rose from the desk and quickly disrobed.

"Lie upon the desk." She looked at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable, before complying with his demand. Passing by him as she crossed the room, she nimbly climbed upon the desk and lay down on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling. She did not move, save for the shallow rising and falling of her chest. As he came into upon, he could not discern whether the expression upon her face was one of passion or fear. And then he reminded himself that he did not care.

The school was nearly empty for the Christmas holiday and Snape took full advantage of the privacy such emptiness afforded them. Beginning cautiously, he met Hermione only in his office or classroom. But after several days, he grew bolder, finding more and more locations throughout the castle. It was as though his fantasies had sprung to life. He felt invincible, as though he could never be caught, for his fantasies never allowed for such a thing to happen. He was careless, if not reckless, calling for her at all hours, day and night, in every location imaginable. And she never failed to come to him, never hesitated, no matter the abuse he heaped upon her. She was his slave and seemed grateful to be so.

Just before classes resumed in January, he found himself worrying that his time with Hermione would be curtailed by the presence of the student body once more. However, as the castle filled with bodies, he took their presence as a challenge, seeking ever-more dangerous places to meet. As the weeks wore on, they met in rooms all over Hogwarts – classrooms, bathrooms, and cupboards, just as often as his office and Potions classroom. One evening, he managed to fulfill his well-worn fantasy of fucking her against the stacks in the library, just barely managing to escape Mr. Filch as he investigated the disturbance. One particularly bold afternoon, he pulled her into the darkened corner behind a statue on a rarely visited sixth-floor corridor. As she clung to the base of the statue, he thrust into her violently, daring her to cry out and alert someone to their presence.

Despite the varied nature and location of their encounters, however, certain facets of their relationship remained constant. Though Snape ensured that Hermione was thoroughly satisfied, coming each and every time, her pleasure was always bestowed by Snape as he saw fit. He demanded total control over their relationship, from the time of their meeting, to the place, to the 

manner in which they fucked. Never did he place himself in a position of subjugation by allowing her to ride him. And in all their meeting places, he never allowed her to visit his bedchamber, preferring the cold expansiveness of the castle to the personal security of his room.

But perhaps most vital to Snape was his refusal to remain with Hermione for any length of time after sex. For despite his set determination to disabuse himself of his guilt and allow his baser instincts to have free reign, it was in the moments after he had come that he was least able to cope with his own actions. To allow Hermione to see any doubt or shame was not an option. And so wrested himself from her the first moment he was able, struggling once more to suppress his pain, burying his remorse deeper and deeper within himself.

Only once did his guilt extend beyond his usual post-coital period of self-abasement. One afternoon, early in January, it occurred to him with a flash that she could become pregnant. Somehow, the possibility has completely escaped his attention. And though he knew that many witches, even those at Hogwarts, used preventative potions once coming of-age, he had never consulted Hermione on such an issue. He tried to put the thought from his mind, but the ramifications of a pregnancy were too dire to ignore.

Thus, he found himself sneaking into the hospital wing one evening while Madam Pomfrey was at dinner, in order to peruse Hermione's treatment record. When he discovered she was, in fact, being prescribed the monthly potion, his knees weakened with relief. However, an instant later, his jealous anger flared, as he realized she had been receiving the potion since turning 17, well before his association with her began. Of course, he reasoned, she could have begun receiving the potion as a preventative measure, a fortuitous move, considering the impromptu nature of their initial encounters. But the thought that she had been sleeping with anyone else made his blood run cold, and strengthened his resolve to possess her entirely.

As the weeks turned into months and winter's vicious storms weakened into bleak, wan days, he tried his best not to notice the effect his actions were having on Hermione. For a while she was always eager to see him and always an active participant in their meetings. However, before long, she was looking worse for wear and it was clear that what was happening was not good for her. She became drawn and gaunt, and looked older than her eighteen years. He knew from observing her in the Great Hall that she was hardly eating, and couldn't possibly have been getting enough sleep, what with the amount of studying she did, coupled with her extracurricular activities with him. In addition, she bore the wounds and scars that resulted from his regular assaults, albeit in locations only he would see. Snape himself was not well, his health suffering at the hands of his addiction. For that was what sex had become to him; not a day passed that he did not summon Hermione to him, at least once and usually more frequently.

Still, though he knew what was happening was wrong, to say the least, and though he knew he was causing nothing but harm to himself and to Hermione, he had no intention of modifying his actions. It was difficult enough to remember that she would be graduating in a few short months; such knowledge was buried each day with his guilt and shame, not to be dwelt upon.

And so things would have continued, had Dumbledore not intervened.

Evening had fallen upon the Hogwarts grounds and Snape had retired to his chambers, where he intended to grade a slew of essays and potions before summoning Hermione to his office. But just moments after entering his room, a knock sounded upon his door. Snape turned back to answer it, wondering if Hermione would have taken it upon herself to come to him early. Such a move would have been unexpected, especially since he had never invited her to visit him in his bedchamber.

Opening the door, he was surprised to find the headmaster standing on the other side.

"Professor Dumbledore, good evening," he said, his surprise evident in his tone. Remembering his manners, however, he stepped aside, saying, "Please, do come in."

Dumbledore smiled and swept past Snape into the room, saying, "Thank you, Severus. I apologize for the intrusion."

Dumbledore looked about the room for a moment and then returned his gaze to Snape. "I trust you are alone?" he asked inquiringly.

Snape looked sharply at the headmaster and answered, "Yes, of course."

"Good. Let us sit and chat for a moment, shall we?" Dumbledore settled himself in one of the armchairs before the fire, adding, "A nice brandy or whiskey would do nicely, don't you think?"

Once again, Snape answered, "Yes, of course," and set to fixing the two men a pair of drinks. Once they were both settled before the fire, drinks in hand, a silence fell, and Snape was at a loss for how to address the chasm developing.

Finally, Dumbledore, who had seemed not the least bit disturbed by the silence, ended the awkwardness by asking, "I do hope we will have a pleasant spring, do you not?"

Snape, accustomed to Dumbledore's inane chit-chat, answered easily, "Yes, I suppose some warm weather would be nice."

Dumbledore continued, "And I do think that some sun would do you a world of good. You are far too pale and drawn, far more so than usual."

Snape gave a noncommittal grunt in return, not wishing to discuss the state of his health.

"My, this term has progressed quickly, no? It seems that, just yesterday, the students were returning from their Christmas holidays and now we're very nearly onto end-of-term exams."

Again, Snape said nothing, taking a sip of his firewhiskey. He generally tried not to think about the end of term, as it meant that Hermione would be graduating. His silence, however, did nothing to stop Dumbledore from continuing his chatter.

"And your students, will they be ready for their exams? How are the O.W.L and N.E.W.T. students progressing?"

Dumbledore was now looking at Snape most carefully, and Snape stared back, becoming more certain of what the old man was fishing for. He felt his face grow hot and he gripped his glass tightly.

Without giving Snape a chance to answer, Dumbledore continued, "I believe your N.E.W.T. students, Miss Granger in particular, show a great deal of promise."

Snape felt sick to his stomach. Dumbledore knew. How long had he known? Of course, they hadn't been as discreet as they should have been, but he thought he had been careful enough. So what would happen now? He'd be chucked out, of course, and disgraced. The parents would find out and there would be a scandal…he'd never teach again and be forced to return to Spinner's End, where he'd live a lonely life as a recluse…he could imagine it all vividly. But what bothered him more than anything was the thought that he wouldn't see Hermione again; it would be over. That, more than anything else, scared him to death.

He realized Dumbledore was watching him carefully. The old wizard asked him gently, "Severus, what precisely is happening between you and Hermione Granger?"

Snape rose from his chair and stood before the fireplace, his back to Dumbledore.

"I do not know what you are talking about," he replied, his voice level, but his heart heavy with the lie. Both men knew the truth, but he could not bring himself to admit it to this man, whom he so greatly respected and admired.

Dumbledore sighed sadly and was quiet for a moment more. Finally, he spoke.

"Severus, please look at me."

Snape turned to face Dumbledore, careful to keep his face and eyes unreadable. Dumbledore gave him an appraising glance before stating, "Severus, I do not know exactly what is happening between you and Miss Granger. But I do know that, whatever it is, it is harmful. To both of you."

Snape said nothing and Dumbledore continued, "It is my duty, as the headmaster of this school, to protect both my students and my professors. But Severus, it is also my duty to protect you as my friend. What you are doing is not wise, and will bring you both nothing but pain. You must end it."

Dumbledore swallowed what was left of his whiskey and placed the glass down carefully on the table beside him. Rising, he said, "I trust you will think carefully about what I have said. I come to you with only your best interests in mind. Goodnight, Severus."

And with that, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Snape sank heavily into his chair, lowering his head to his hands. He was overwhelmed with guilt, recognizing the position in which he had placed Dumbledore. His headmaster had trusted him with a duty of great importance, that of the molding and shaping of young, impressionable minds. He had placed faith in Snape when no one else would have done so, believing in him despite his past despicable actions. And Snape had betrayed him.

He had known all along that what he was doing was unfair to everyone, especially to Hermione. And he could see, plainly, how their relationship was affecting her. He was truly bad for her. The knowledge of that truth pained him. And what made it all that much worse was the fact that, under it all, he didn't want to treat her the way he did. He wanted to touch her carefully, caress her, make love to her. Love her. And most of all, he wanted her to love him.

Snape pulled a galleon out of his pocket. He smiled to himself as he slid his fingers over the gold. It was the special coin, the one he used to summon her. He remembered when he had first been told of the system, the one used by Dumbledore's Army years before, and he remembered how impressed he had been when he had learned that Hermione Granger had developed the system. When he had presented her with a coin several months before, her face had glowed at his recognition of her talents; in response, he had been more forceful with her than usual, not wanting to let her become too close.

In the present, Snape tapped the galleon with his wand, canceling his meeting with her. He needed some time to think about what Dumbledore had said. By morning, however, whatever resolve he might have developed in trying to stay away from her crumbled. Though he knew it was wrong, and though he knew it might cost him his job and his reputation, he could not stay away from Hermione.

Late in the afternoon, as students were streaming toward the Great Hall for dinner, he stepped out of the shadows and plucked her, unseen, from the throngs. He pulled her into a nearby classroom and charmed the door. As he listened to the footsteps die away, he gazed upon her and tried to tell himself to let her go. But the thought of ending things, right then and there, produced a rage in him that he could not control. Unreasonably, he felt himself becoming angry with her, as though she had played some part in causing his inner turmoil.

Hermione reached for him but, with a surge of anger, he held her back. Though he knew it was unfair, he found himself irrationally, uncontrollably filled with rage. With his rage came powerful arousal and his never-ending need to dominate her. More than ever, his urge to possess her filled him, as the thought that she could be taken from him forever became a real possibility.

And so, without offering any explanation as to his sudden ire, he forced her to her knees, where, despite his rough treatment, she immediately sought to pleasure him. With her hands she drew him out, and with her mouth, she drew him in, and for a moment, he was surrounded by heat and desire, to the exclusion of all other senses. But before long, he became aware of what was happening, the battle between his lust for her and his need to do the right thing stormed within him. He simply could not deny that he needed her, more than anything, and he longed to bring her yet closer to him.

He slid his fingers into her hair, the bushiness of which disguised its soft, luxurious feel. He loved to sink his fingers into her head, believing that her hair was his secret delight, known only to him. His hands securely against her scalp, he pushed firmly on her head, leading her mouth ever further along his cock, needing more and more access to her. She began to gag but he did not care, his thoughts only on his desire for her and his absolute need for control. Finally, she resisted, pulling away from him, but he directed his gaze down toward her, narrowing his eyes and silently commanding her to recommence her ministrations. With a determined breath, she sank once more to her task and he gloried in her surrender.

His release was building and he simultaneously pushed for his orgasm while seeking to prolong his domination. And somewhere underneath it all, he knew that once he came, he would be subsumed once more with his shame and despair. But he couldn't hold off his orgasm forever, and eventually, her skillful tongue proved too much, and he came into her mouth, down her throat, groaning and clutching her head to him.

He knew she would be waiting for him. He knew he had never left her, seeking his own solace, without pleasuring her first. But the intense pleasure of his orgasm also brought, as he had expected, crushing self-doubt and anguish. And so he pushed her from him and ran from the classroom, leaving Hermione in a heap on the floor.

When Snape reached his chambers, he found he could not sit still. Instead, he paced the room for hours, stalking to and fro, consumed by thoughts of his disastrous situation. He wanted so badly, in that moment, to do the right thing. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the right thing was to walk away from her. But even the thought of walking away was like tearing a limb from his own body. Even so, he knew what he had to do.

After pacing in his room for several hours, Snape ascended from the dungeons, seeking the early evening air, hoping for some relief from his suffocating thoughts. But before he could make his escape through the front door in the entrance hall, a booming voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Evenin', Professor!" came the unmistakable greeting from Hagrid, as he crossed the entrance hall to meet Snape.

Snape considered ignoring him and simply fleeing the building, but his manners got the best of him.

"Hagrid," he replied coldly, hoping to keep the small talk to a minimum.

"A few o' us were just headin' down to the pub for a pint or two. Care to join us?" asked Hagrid, in his usual, jovial tone. It was then that Snape realized that Hagrid was trailed by several other professors, chatting amiably as they ambled toward the door.

Snape opened his mouth to reply, but stopped before saying a word. The thought of spending an evening with any of them, especially Hagrid, with his buoyant cheerfulness, made Snape want to slam his head against the wall. And he was just about to say so when a vision of his coming 

evening stopped him short. For he could see it plainly – after trying to wear himself out by stalking about the castle grounds for hours, he would return to his room, where he would resume pacing, alternately agonizing over what action to take with regard to Hermione and jerking off as he fantasized about how he would ravish her during their next encounter. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

And so, much to the shock of everyone else, Snape finally answered Hagrid, "I'll come down for a little while."

As the small group set off towards the castle gates, it became clear that the professors had mistaken Snape's assent at joining the group as an eagerness to participate in conversation. But it took only one withering glance directed toward Pomona Sprout after she inquired after Snape's term for the group to let him alone.

When they arrived at the Three Broomsticks, Snape was sure he had made a mistake by agreeing to tag along. The pub was crowded and noisy, with groups of young men ogling Rosmerta at the bar. Still, Snape made his way through the crowd and joined the rest of the Hogwarts crowd as they found a table.

Hagrid, who was heading toward the bar for drinks, called out to Snape, "Professor – mead?"

Snape grimaced and called back, "Firewhiskey. A double."

An hour and three whiskeys later, Snape could no longer stomach the insipid prattle and gossip of the other members of his party. So when Hagrid offered to get Snape another drink, Snape mumbled, "Don't bother," and headed toward the bar himself.

Settling himself into an empty bar stool, he sighed with weary relief at his independence. He would take horny teenagers at the bar over the middle-aged Hogwarts staff any day. After downing his fourth whiskey, he ordered a fifth and turned toward the crowd at the bar. He watched as the teenagers fell all over themselves trying to impress Rosmerta and she laughed patronizingly at their efforts. But before long, their barely-concealed yearning looks brought to him visions of Weasley mooning over Hermione and he turned his attention away.

It was then that he noticed the witch sitting next to him. She was not too young, but not exactly old either, perhaps in her mid- to late-thirties. She had long, light brown hair that fell softly down her back in an elegant sheet, and deep-set brown eyes. She was dressed fashionably, if conservatively, as though she had come from an office. But the grey robes were form-fitting, showing off her trim figure nicely. On the bar, just within reach of her slender, manicured fingers was a drink; it was pink and yet, somehow, deadly-looking. He had taken all of this in before he realized she was looking at him.

Snape jumped slightly, his eyes out of focus from the alcohol. She smiled a familiar smile and he wondered vaguely if he knew the woman.

"Severus Snape," she said in a low voice that still carried to him easily. "I wondered if you'd make your way over to me tonight." Her voice was silky and sophisticated and sent a shiver down his spine. But more importantly, he recognized it.

"Opal?" he asked, uncertainly. She smiled more broadly at his having remembered and placed her hand over his.

And then it came back to him. Opal Rosier. She was the wealthy daughter of a pureblood wizarding family, related to Evan Rosier and, distantly, to the Malfoys. During his time with the Death Eaters, when nothing had mattered to him but power and glory and the service of the Dark Lord, she had been one of the many. He remembered little of their association, but that he had been with her, he was certain. And judging from the way she was looking at him, Opal was just as certain.

He had seen her name a few times over the years, as she had ascended position after position within the ministry. Though he didn't know her exact position any longer, how she managed to rise through the ranks was no mystery to him, based on his personal experience with her. She had no real allegiances one way or the other, toward those seeking pureblood preservation or those pushing for diversity and acceptance. Opal was out for Opal, and what she hungered for more than anything was power. Hence her eagerness to attract Snape in his early, promising days as a Death Eater.

Snape continued to drink as Opal lured him into conversation. Her tinkling laugh cut through his foggy brain, assaulting him on his every attempt to think clearly. As she talked, first her right hand, and then both hands explored his hands and arms, snaking up to his shoulders.

"I read all about what you did during the war," she purred, eyeing him seductively. "I always knew you'd be a great man one day. I just never expected you to pick the side you did." She pouted a bit at her last sentence, but then brightened once more.

"Still, you're quite an impressive man, Severus. Who knew we'd find each other again after all these years."

Snape was trapped beneath an intoxicated haze, but he did not miss Opal's hands as they came to rest on his thighs and then slowly began sliding back and forth.

Her eyes glittered as she leaned in and whispered to him, "I've never forgotten you."

Through his drunkenness, Snape felt his arousal start to creep up. The feelings of the old days were returning, feelings of power and authority without limit. He knew that, with Opal, he could have whatever he wanted.

Getting to his feet uncertainly, Snape took a deep breath. He grabbed her wrist and she winced a little, clearly surprised by his strong grip.

"Let's go," he muttered gruffly and began to pull her toward the back door of the pub. Opal stumbled a little as she trailed behind and stammered, "We can go to my place—"

"No," stated Snape, authoritatively, not stopping. "Out back." He did not turn to determine whether anyone from Hogwarts had watched him leave with her through the crowded pub.

The pair tripped through the back door into the narrow alley that serviced the Three Broomsticks and Snape allowed the door to slam behind him. The cool night air met him like a slap in the face, and he sobered slightly. And then her hands were on him and pushed her roughly against the wall, sinking once again into his intoxication.

As he kissed her, in the back of his mind, he noted that her taste was alien, not right. His hands fought through robes to grasp skin that was a foreign texture. Silken strands of hair brushed against his cheeks, sending wafts of unfamiliar scent into his nostrils. It felt wrong.

Despite the wrongness, however, he shoved the inconsistencies to the back of his mind and began a fresh assault, surging against her as his erection stretched through his layers of clothing. Her hands were sliding across his body and pulling at his robes. Finally, they reached his tented pants and pulled open his fly, reaching her hand into free his swollen cock.

Her hand made contact with his member and he broke their kiss, moaning in pleasure. As he buried his head into her neck and bucked into her warm hand, he groaned, muttering, "Hermione."

He pressed his lips against hers again, murmuring, "Hermione," once more against her mouth. But as the name passed his lips, she pulled her head away slightly, panting into his ear, "It's Opal. Opal."

Snape stopped short. With a rush of sobriety, he realized what he was doing and who he was _not_ with. With all his might, he placed his hand upon her chest and heaved, slamming her against the wall as he roared, "Get away!" He was panting and gazed about, wild-eyed, realizing the extent of his madness.

Opal was surveying him with shock, he robes hanging open. After a moment, fury flashed in her eyes and she closed her robes. But when she spoke, her words were calm, if short.

"I see."

Snape hurriedly righted his clothing and spun away from Opal. With only a moment's hesitation, he took off down the alley, wanting to be away from there, away from her. He barely heard her as she called after him sarcastically, "Goodbye, Severus!"

Snape's heart pounding heart kept time with his feet as he bolted back to the castle. Once safely within his chambers, he leaned back against his door, eyes closed, until his heaving chest calmed. And with that, he resumed pacing the floor, as though he had never left.

His thoughts were chaotic and his brain buzzed with confusion. For hours, he kept up his pacing, unable to settle on one thought. In the back of his mind, he recognized that, more than anything, he was afraid to dwell on his thoughts, afraid of where they might take him. And so he walked for hours until, finally exhausted, he collapsed on his bed.

A few hours later, the morning found Snape hungover and groggy. He showered and dressed, and headed straight for his classroom, where he hoped to brew himself a restorative potion, but when he arrived, he found he was unable to focus long enough to brew the potion correctly. The only other option to cure his pounding headache would be to visit Madam Pomfrey. But after his performance for the various members of the Hogwarts staff during the previous evening, he had little desire to show his face around the castle, let alone inform anyone that he was hungover. So, instead, he suffered until his first class arrived, at which time he set them to work brewing a restorative potion. If any of the mindless students had the ability to brew such a potion without killing him, it would be a miracle, but he was willing to take the risk.

By midmorning, Snape had managed to take some potion and had recovered slightly from the previous evening's activities. He had not forgotten his disastrous reunion with Opal, but he honestly didn't care what she thought of him. Truly, the only person he cared about was Hermione.

N.E.W.T.-level Potions was scheduled for just after midmorning break and he wasn't quite sure how to prepare for it. The last few days had been confusing and, in all honesty, terrifying to Snape. The prospect of losing Hermione forever was fresh in his mind but he couldn't see any way to rectify the situation. Whether he heeded Dumbledore's warning or not, she would graduate in a few short months and he would be left alone. The prospect was frightening.

When Hermione entered the classroom, as usual, he did his best to remain neutral and unaffected by her presence. Hermione, on the other hand, who was usually calm and collected during class, today appeared angry and vengeful. She chopped her potion ingredients violently and slammed them into her cauldron, sending splatter across her desk. Her cheeks were pink with the flush of her wrath and she glared openly at him throughout most of the morning. He wondered vaguely if her anger had anything to do with him and their last time together on the fifth-floor classroom. No matter the cause, however, he refused to allow himself to be baited.

Meanwhile, as Hermione apparently fumed across the room, Snape agonized privately over what he viewed as him impending doom. The thought of her leaving, of being separated from him, was unbearable. And when class ended and he watched the door close behind her retreating back, a pain as real as being stabbed by a knife awakened him absolutely to his feelings for her. He would tell her. There was no other alternative. She had to know that, beneath the punishing treatment and degrading sexual depravity, his love for her was utterly unconditional and unqualified. He loved her. He needed her. And he would tell her.

The sudden realization and conviction with which he experienced his revelation was overwhelming and he dropped into his chair. He had no idea how he would form the words to tell her how much he needed her. But he knew that he would find them. With dizzying speed, ideas were coming to him as his future was suddenly spread before him. He would tell her and 

she would love him too and she would be with him. She would not leave Hogwarts at the end of term, but would remain with him. They would leave together and start a new life. They would travel, they would experience new things together. She was young and brilliant, and with his help, she would rise to new heights of glory and recognition. His heart was fluttering and palpitating as he reveled in the ecstasy of his anticipation. Slowly, the grey pages of his life began to brighten, as brilliant colors seeped in at every corner. It would be different. He would be different.

Ripping out his galleon from his pocket, he sent for her, to come to him as soon as possible. He could wait no longer to tell her. His heart was bursting.

Yet, somehow, he had not anticipated the obvious. For she did not come. For hours, he waited, canceling his afternoon classes, pacing his office all evening. But she did not come. He was utterly unprepared for the shock to his system caused by her unresponsiveness. It was like being plunged into a bath of icy water. He had embarked upon a journey of self-discovery and was cognizant of the fact that, minute by minute, he was becoming more aware of himself. But this newfound realization was thoroughly dependent upon her, upon her acceptance of him. Perhaps it was counterintuitive to seek self-discovery through another. But his years of solitude and independence had produced nothing but loneliness for him.

So now, where had this left him? In the span of several days, he had reversed nearly two decades of practice and certainty to open himself up for the first time. And she rejected him. For several days, he summoned her insistently, desperately, but she did not respond. And so, without her there to catch him as he leapt from his high perch of security into the great unknown, he plummeted into a freefall of anxiety and despair.

The days passed into weeks, one agonizing minute at a time, and all the while, she ignored him. In the Great Hall, she kept her body turned resolutely from him as she ate and talked with her friends. In class, though she always showed up, she hardly made an effort. When her grades began to slip, she appeared to recognize the senselessness of sabotaging herself at the end of her school career and her grades picked up once more. But her lackadaisical, almost spiteful attitude was not lost on him.

It wasn't long before his despair began to harden in response. He was bitter and angry and unable to contain any of his feelings. Throughout the spring, his students suffered at his hand as his wrath was unleashed in a torrent of heavy punishments and words more acidic than any potion he could ever concoct. At night, he burned with a mixture of despair and longing more intense than anything he had felt in the days leading up to the first night with her in the classroom. He remembered that first night well, and the challenge she had laid down, seeking to exert control over him. He had denied her that control at every opportunity and now, it appeared she was effecting her revenge. For she had all the control and he was absolutely powerless. His impotence was maddening.

The final day of classes arrived, but neither Snape nor Hermione acknowledged the occasion to one another. In fact, the day passed rather unremarkably, much as if it had been any other class. But suddenly, class was ending and she was walking out the door. Despite his anger and vicious 

rage, he found himself panicking at her departure. She was no longer his student; whatever had existed between them was now, most certainly, at an end. And he didn't want the end to be like this, to be bitter and vengeful.

The castle embarked upon a week of hushed intensity, for students were preparing for exams. Though he didn't want to care, didn't want it to matter, he trailed Hermione frequently, spying on her as she studied intently in the library. It was as though he wanted to get his fill of her before she would be gone forever. As she pored over her books and notes, he pored over her, studying every detail of her face, her hair, her body. He committed to memory each and every curve and plane of her figure and analyzed every gesture.

He noticed ruefully that, after several months of no contact with him, she appeared healthier. She had gained back the weight she had lost, discarding her skeletal, emaciated look. Her skin, once sallow and sickly, was now vibrant, her cheeks colorful once more. Her eyes no longer appeared sunken and filmy, but were once again bright and sparkling. And though he couldn't actually tell while she was dressed, he was sure her bruises and wounds that he had inflicted upon her were healed. All evidence that he had ever been with her had disappeared.

Snape's attention to Hermione carried straight through to the N.E.W.T. examinations. From concealed locations, he observed each and every exam, holding his breath as she flawlessly executed the practical sections. And though he had little doubt in her abilities, when she finally reached the Potions exam on the final day of testing, he couldn't help but feel nervous for her. But he could see that she brewed her potion perfectly each step of the way, producing a flawless finished product. He didn't doubt that she had passed all of her N.E.W.T.s with flying colors. And he felt a surge of reluctant pride when he privately acknowledged to himself that she'd be able to anywhere and do anything she set out to accomplish.

With N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s completed, the remainder of the school rushed into its examination period and Snape was forced to abandon his post as secret guardian and watchman of Hermione in order to administer his other students' exams. The testing period moved quickly, and suddenly, exams were finished and graded and students and staff alike were enjoying the last days of sunshine before the Hogwarts Express departed Hogsmeade Station for London.

Once he had completed his final professorial duties for the year, Snape found himself at the bottom of a well of depression and anger. He avoided people as much as possible, and spent the majority of his time in his chambers or office, leafing through old books and doing his best to focus on potions-related activity. Thus, when the last night of the school year arrived, heralded by the leaving feast, it was not a difficult decision to remain in his self-imposed solitary confinement.

After several hours cooped up in his office, he needed a break from the tediousness of his books and wandered through the dungeon corridors until he reached the Potions classroom. Entering the room, he lit the torches and gazed around. It was here that his moments of intimacy with Hermione had sprung to life, through stolen gazes during classtime. It was here that their affair had begun, so many months before. And it was here that he would spend the remainder of his 

days, alone, attempting the mold the minds of the innumerable students yet to come, students who became more and more insolent with each passing year.

His eyes flickered over to the storeroom door and he crossed the room and pulled it open. Stepping inside, he gazed upon the rows of shelves, crowded, but well-organized, labels gracing each shelf in a neat hand. He ran his hand along the edge of one shelf lovingly, appreciating the effort she had put into the task. He could not have done a better job himself.

Abruptly, he shook himself out of his reverie. This would not do. To have the cupboard in such a state would only serve to remind him daily of what he had lost. His chest swelled with anguish and he swept his arm along the nearest shelf, bringing its contents crashing to the floor.

Snape closed his eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. His blood pressure decreasing, he began to empty the cupboard of its contents methodically, loading everything onto the desks in the classroom. He would reorganize and relabel and remove every trace of her presence.

After a time, the loading of small jars into boxes and the heaving of the boxes into the classroom became routine, leading him into almost a trance-like state. As a result, it was with complete astonishment that he exited the storeroom to find Hermione standing across the room.

Hermione's face registered surprise as well, apparently at his actions. They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity. It was the most she had acknowledged him in months. He was in turmoil, not knowing what to do next. He longed to run to her and sweep her into his arms as he had never done before. But the time for such actions had passed. She didn't want him. And the knowledge of that fact reinforced his resolve.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"What do you want?" he demanded continuing with his activity. She didn't answer him directly, however, and responded, "What are you doing?"

She was watching him empty the box of potion ingredients onto a desk. He didn't stop as he replied, "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm cleaning the storeroom."

He returned to the storeroom for another box, and on his trip back to the classroom, she began, "But I…" Her words trailed off; he knew she was wondering why he'd clean the storeroom she had just organized so well several months earlier.

Not looking to hand out any compliments, he retorted, "For your information, your organization of the storeroom was unacceptable. Tonight was my first opportunity to rectify the disorder you caused."

She looked as though she had been slapped by his insult. However, she addressed another issue as she continued, "Tonight? Tonight was the first opportunity? Tonight was the leaving feast. Why couldn't it have been tomorrow?"

Her voice was gentle and he could hear the abrasiveness in his own voice as he responded with a sneer, "And why on earth would I attend the leaving feast?" He glanced up at her and continued sarcastically, "Was my presence requested?"

He noticed that she did not meet his eyes as she responded softly, "I would have liked for you to be there."

Her answer caused him to laugh bitterly. "Oh yes, you have avoided me; you have ignored my requests to see you for months, but you would have liked for me to attend. I see."

She continued to stare at the floor and he let the cruel smile slip from his face. He was tired of the games. Letting out a sigh, he finally asked her resignedly, "What do you want, Miss Granger? Why are you here?" He was ready for his torment to end.

She raised her eyes to his for the first time since entering the room; she opened her mouth but only stammered, "I…I just thought…"

"You just thought what?" he demanded sharply, wanting to know what more she could possibly want from him. Apparently, she didn't know either, and she sighed and returned her eyes to the floor.

As their gaze broke, Snape felt something break within himself as well. This was it. They had nothing left to say to each other, nothing but harsh, bitter words, and so he chose to put a stop to it.

"Get out of my sight." He tried to put some venom into the words, a hint of threat, but it just wasn't in him. Fighting to keep his composure, he turned his back on her and headed back to the cupboard. When, at last, he heard the classroom door close behind her, he let out a breath and took a few shaky steps back to the desk.

He lowered himself to the seat slowly as the realization of his loss hit home. His body was trembling as it usually did after he came with her. All of the emotion came surging up, all of the guilt, all of the memories of his bad acts, and assaulted him violently. As angry as he had been with her, for months, he was angrier with himself for letting it happen in the first place. The blame for his condition lay with no one but himself.

He lowered his face to his hands as the trembling in his body worsened. Tears burned behind his eyes and for the first time, they threatened to spill over onto his cheeks. Despite all of it, he still yearned to hold her. He longed to hear her speak his name.

He was still sitting in this position, aching and trembling, when the door swung open once more. He had been certain that when she had walked out the door, he would never see her again. But she was back, and their eyes connected. So surprised was he that he forgot to look away and shield his emotions. He felt naked and ashamed, of everything he had done, and he had momentarily lost the ability to cloak his emotions. She was looking at him with unabashed openness and concern. He wanted desperately to shut her out and push her away, but he could 

not make a sound and she was not leaving. Silently, he pleaded with his eyes for her to leave him in peace, but she ignored his pleas. On her face was an expression of equal parts revelation and determination.

When she took a step toward him, it finally triggered his brain and he leapt from his chair, shaking harder. He had never felt so frightened; he was an exposed raw nerve, and the mere thought of being touched sent shivers down his spine. But she ignored his reaction and was across the room in an instant. He backed up to the wall as she approached him and stretched out her hand.

As their fingers met, he felt not the painful surge of electricity he had been expecting, but a soothing, calming tingle. He relaxed slightly at the contact and she took his accession as an invitation. Her arms slipped up and pulled his head down toward hers as she captured his mouth in a kiss. Her body was pressing against him and he returned the pressure, accepting her body like a salve on an open wound.

The kiss was unlike anything he had ever known. Never had he felt such passion or such joy from the act. Never had he felt like he existed simply for the purpose of being joined to someone else in such a way. And never had he felt that he deserved such a feeling.

She had begun to remove his clothing, one piece at a time, but he hardly knew what was happening. He was lost in a dream, where all was loving kisses and tender caresses. He had never known it could be this way. Not for him.

Presently, he became aware that she had removed both of their clothes. An instant later, his arms were around her and they were resuming their embrace. Their bodies came into full contact and each of his nerve endings rejoiced in the pressure of her skin against his. She pushed more fully against him and his back pressed harder against the wall. Giving into the pressure, he slid down along the wall, and she followed, sitting astride his lap as he reached the floor. Instantly, he sought out her mouth to continue their passionate embrace.

He was fully erect, his aching cock throbbing in time with his aching soul. He longed for her but simultaneously knew he did not deserve her. But he had no control over himself any longer, nor did he have control over the situation. He had laid himself on the line before her at last. He pressed forward because he could not stop, and prayed that she would grant him what it was he desired.

At last, their embrace became too much for him and he longed to be buried within her. In an effort to reach her, he surged his hips forward, and she pulled her head back in surprise. Their eyes met and held. Both knew that, at any other time, when he had been ready to enter her, he would simply have done so, forcefully and without permission. But he didn't want to take without asking any longer. He wanted her to bestow herself upon him, to give herself up willingly. And so he waited tensely as she searched within his eyes for whatever answers she was seeking.

Hermione almost appeared to become lost in thought and Snape's anxiety grew. He had never needed her as he needed her in that moment and his apprehension increased as he felt her slipping from him.

In desperation, his voice hardly a raspy whisper, he choked, "Hermione."

At the sound of her name falling from his lips for the first time, she snapped back to reality, shock apparent on her face. But when she did not act on his plea immediately, he groaned and continued, "Please…"

As he begged her to grant him the release he had been seeking for so long, he reached up his hand and stroked her cheek, unable to find any other way to show her the tenderness of his feelings for her.

Hermione's eyes filled with tears and Snape felt certain that whatever questions she had had, he had answered. Without removing her eyes from his, she wrapped her arms around him once more and lowered herself onto him.

With just the first movement, stars exploded behind his eyes. As his vision returned to him, he reconnected their gaze, stepping up the intensity of their union. Hermione lifted herself and sank upon him once more, settling slowly and carefully into a rhythm.

It was glorious and different from every other time with her, or any other woman. He felt powerful, not because he sought to dominate her, but because she made him stronger. Minutes before, he had been a quivering mass upon the desk and now, with her to guide him, he felt the strength of ten armies within himself. Through her, he felt the promise of the man he could be. He was a phoenix, old and careworn, and she was the fire, through which he died and was reborn. She burned bright and intense, destroying his past and purifying him until he was clean and whole.

As the rhythm of their lovemaking increased, colors began to bleed into the edges of his vision, obliterating his sight. There, for the first time, were the vibrant, pulsating hues he had been missing – the splendid colors of a sunrise, fiery oranges and glimmering golds, and brilliant crimsons, all holding the expectation of a fresh, new day. It was his to be had, if he would just reach out and take it.

And so he did. Completely unaware of where he was or what was happening, Snape gave himself over to the kaleidoscope of colors before him, reaching for a life he had hardly dared to dream of until then. This was how it could be. Surrounded by the glow of ecstasy, he felt himself let go as his orgasm tore through his body and anchored him back in reality.

He became aware that Hermione was still above him. As his orgasm passed in wave after wave through his body, he collapsed against her, burying his face in her neck. He pulled her close to him, not wanting to lose the nearness of her presence. Even after the shuddering of his body had stilled, he could not control his trembling. Remorse flooded his body, but, for the first time, it was not for what he had just done, but for what he had done previously. Every time he had been 

with her, he had had an opportunity to change things, to set them right, but he had never allowed himself. Instead, whenever his guilt had threatened to rear its ugly head, he had run from her, never letting her in.

But now, as his sorrow mounted, he could not escape her, nor did he want to. Instead, he buried his head against her, allowing the tears that had threatened him for so long to finally escape. Choking on the sobs that rose from his throat, he moaned into her neck, "Hermione…Hermione…" Her name on his lips felt like the sweetest water and he wanted nothing more than to be able to say it for the rest of his life.

And then, finally, came the words he had known he owed her from the start.

"I'm sorry." And with that, he was lost, sobbing against her as he mourned the life he passed up. In that moment, he atoned for all the acts in the service of the Dark Lord, for all of the women during those years. He prostrated himself before her to beg forgiveness for the years of selfish solitude. And, most of all, he begged for absolution from her.

Through it all, Hermione held him close to her, rocking gently, stroking his back, whispering in his ear. After an eternity, as he felt his sobs subsiding, he whispered to her once more, "I'm sorry."

Hermione continued to hold him as she pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss. And then she whispered back, "I'm sorry too."

After a time, Hermione pulled her head from his, looking into his eyes once more. When she lifted her body from his, he felt a chill descend upon his body, both physically and emotionally. He watched her silently as she pulled her robe on and gathered up her belongings. Despite everything that had occurred, despite everything they had been through together, he still had not told her. She approached him quietly and slipped his robe over his shoulders. As she drew away from him, instinctively, he reached out and caught her arm. This was the moment. But the words did not form, even as his brain beat against the inside of his skull, demanding that he not let her go. Desperately, he pleaded with his eyes for her to understand. But she did not. Or maybe she did, but simply did not love him. The possibility kept him silent and, mutely, he watched as she carefully, tenderly, withdrew her arm from his grip and left the room.

After her departure, an overwhelming exhaustion consumed him. He raised himself on rubbery legs and carefully made his way back to his chambers, where he collapsed onto his bed and fell into the deepest sleep he had experienced in a year.

The next morning found Snape standing on the front steps of Hogwarts. He had one last opportunity. The thestral-drawn coaches had departed and the train to London would be leaving at any moment. He could reach her before then and he could tell her. He could ask her not just to pity him but to love him and to be with him. He could reach for the life that, for the first time, seemed within his grasp.

With sudden determination, he took off for the front gates of the school at a sprint. Reaching the gates, his chest heaving with exertion, he twisted his wand as he turned and Disapparated, finding himself upon the platform at the station.

Students milled about and steam billowed from the engine, swirling around the moving bodies. Immediately, he backed into the shadows as he searched her out. It was only a moment before he spotted her bushy hair, as she stood in a small, disorganized queue, waiting to board the train. His heart leapt at the sight of her and he took a step in her direction. At that moment, he stopped, however, as he noticed Weasley standing behind her. Snape watched as Weasley said something to her that she apparently couldn't hear in the surrounding din, so he lowered his lips closer to her ear. She smiled appreciatively at whatever the comment was and ducked her head shyly. And then she was boarding the train.

Snape expected to feel a raging jealousy at the scene he had just witnessed, but for the first time, he was calm. He looked along the length of the train, attempting to locate the compartment she would choose. As he scanned the windows, he considered the possibility that she would wind up with Weasley. It would be a sensible move on her part. And maybe she had feelings for him. But whether she married Weasley, or Potter, for that matter, he knew that either was a better fit for her than he. He was old and weary, disillusioned with the world. What kind of life could a Potions teacher, a former Death Eater, offer to someone like Hermione Granger?

The colors were bleeding out as the grey once more subsumed his world. For a brief moment, he had felt the hope of a new life and the joy and anticipation of sharing it with Hermione. But she did not belong with him, and without her, the new life was useless.

His eyes came to rest on her face as she sat down in a compartment not too far away. She was resting her head against the glass, her eyes unfocused and sad. The whistle blew and the train gave a great lurch. At the same moment, her eyes turned a fraction of an inch and came to rest on him where he stood in the shadows on the platform. A small smile replaced the desolate look on her face and she raised her hand to the window, pressing her palm and fingers against it. The train began to slide forward and he nodded his head in acknowledgment, careful not to let his tears fall until she was gone.

Returning to the dungeons, he sat before his empty fireplace for a time, contemplating the ashes that were scattered about. Eventually, with an air of finality, he dug out a spare stoppered bottle from a drawer and touched his wand to his temple. One by one, strand by strand, he drew out his memories of her and deposited them into the bottle, the only way he could imagine facing the day, the first day of his new life without her.


End file.
